


But Alone is Alone (Not Alive)

by batty4u



Series: Being Alive (aka The Sugar Daddy saga) [1]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Everyone Is Gay, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Polyamory, Recovery, Slow Burn, Sugar Daddy, Trans Character, if you don't like John silver skip this one folks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2019-07-11 07:05:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 86,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15967208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batty4u/pseuds/batty4u
Summary: Ten years ago it had been his sister’s chance at a new beginning. Now, 4 am approached and John Silver arrived in New York City with everything he owned in two duffle bags and an overwhelmed backpack, in hopes of maybe achieving the same. Or at the very least, to sort out what the fuck he was supposed to do with his life from this point forward. Not that he believed New York held the answer. No city held any real answers, when it came to a person’s path, that much he was certain of. But there was nothing left in California, no reason to stay. He had woken up one morning and felt the malcontent and melancholy in his very bone marrow, and knew something had to change.___(aka. John moves to New York and ends up with an accidental pair of non creepy sugar daddies, ya know, the millennial dream)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I have dragged my gay miserable ass all the way out of fandom retirement for this goddamn show, I'm sure I don't need to go on a rambling soliloquy on why. 
> 
> But this project is in part three things- a personal coping mechanism, a love letter to a city that would no doubt chew me up and spit me out if I moved there but love never the less, and a character study of a show that changed my life in many ways.
> 
> Please Note- 
> 
> If you don't like John Silver, don't read this fic. I mean it, because this entire fic is pretty much John Silver getting loved, supported and dicked down as much as his twink ass desperately deserves. I'm not here for the petty shipping bullshit, so this is your warning. I love John Silver, hence he is my protagonist, point blank.
> 
> I will do my best to keep the updates on this fic regular and stable but I make no promises. 
> 
> That being said, please feel free to drop a line here or in my tumblr inbox at lupismaris.tumblr.com and I hope you enjoy this spontaneous and unprecedented debacle. Technically unbeta'd because it is now on the verge of 90k and I will not put anyone but me through that editing process lmao.
> 
> Cheers, xoxo- Cat

Chapter 1

 

The smell of the air woke him.

 

The gritty, gasoline laced, somehow still crisp autumn air filtering through the cracked open window above him. John shifted, rubbing his eyes as the driver spoke over the muffled louder speaker, announcing their pending arrival at the Port Authority in twenty minutes or so. Outside, in the dim gray of the predawn hours, John could see the weary glittering lights of Manhattan, fractured by the fog rolling in off the Hudson.

 

He hadn’t seen the East Coast, let alone New York City, since high school, following his sister east to visit NYU before applying. Somehow it settled him, to see that at least from the discomfort of the greyhound bus, nothing had really changed. The air, such a sharp contrast from the faint smoggy sea air of Santa Cruz summoned other sensory memories- the feel of blistering hot asphalt beneath his feet, food cart vendors arguing in Farsi, the straps of his backpack biting into his shoulders, the smell of food from every open restaurant door as they passed.

And chaos-

The pure unadulterated chaos of car horns blaring and voices carried on the air and flashing lights no matter which way you turn your head. Cigarette smoke and sugary iced tea laced with jack and the music echoing from a dated stereo on a man’s lap as they rode the subway-

Ten years ago it had been his sister’s chance at a new beginning.

Now, 4 am approached and John Silver arrived in New York City with everything he owned in two duffle bags and an overwhelmed backpack, in hopes of maybe achieving the same. Or at the very least, to sort out what the fuck he was supposed to do with his life from this point forward.

Not that he believed New York held the answer. No city held any real answers, when it came to a person’s path, that much he was certain of. But there was nothing left in California, no reason to stay. He had woken up one morning and felt the malcontent and melancholy in his very bone marrow, and knew something had to change.

 

His sister had insisted that New York was as good a place to start as any.

 

“John!”

 

John saw Max and her girlfriend, Anne, waiting outside by the row of multicolored taxis and smiled. “You didn’t have to come pick me up, not this early-”

 

“I didn’t trust you to find your way back to Jersey alone,” Max said, pulling him into a hug.

 

“Well I made it this far alone, I’m sure I could’ve managed.”

 

“Why you insisted on taking the bus is beyond me,” Max stepped back with a shake of her head and looked him over, delicate hands resting on his shoulders. “You look terrible,” she said with a laugh.

 

“You try spending almost forty hours on a bus,” John replied dryly, earning a chuckle from Anne. “Not even you would be cute after that.”

 

“I offered to help pay for your plane ticket but no, no you just had to take the bus-” Max rolled her eyes and took one of his bags, as Anne lead the way to the car, Jack sitting half asleep behind the wheel.

 

“You know I hate flying- morning Jack!”

 

Jack startled awake with a curse, blinking at them before unlocking the car. “Remind me why you had to arrive at 4 am again?”

 

“Missed you too.”

 

John was bundled into the car alongside his sister, Anne taking the passenger seat as Jack pulled them into the beginnings of rush hour. It had taken the bus twenty minutes just to clear the tunnel alone, but as no one was genuinely trying to leave the city at 4 am, the ride back into Jersey was smoother, that same twenty minutes delivering them into Weehawken and back to the apartment that Max and the other’s shared.

Jack helped get John’s bags inside, kissed his cheek in greeting, and vanished with a grumble, no doubt heading right back to the bed he had been unceremoniously dragged from. Anne followed, tossing her leather jacket onto the back of the couch as she went.

 

“They were out late with Charles,” Max said with a shrug. “Always out late with Charles mind you. C'mon, the den is here.”

 

The apartment only had two bedrooms, prime real estate Max had insisted five years earlier when she and the others had found it. Bigger than anything you’d find for a liveable price in the city, but still a bit too small for the three to five people who often lived there.

John had been promised sole ownership of the futon in the office Max and Jack shared, which given that it meant not spending his precious savings on a hotel room, he was more than grateful for.

 

“Bathroom is through there if you need a shower, kitchen is self explanatory,” Max said, setting his bags in the closet and fetching the bedding for him. She fidgeted with the hem of her sweater as she watched John drop his backpack, before pulling him into a tight hug.

 

“I’ve missed you.” She said softly. “You should have come out here sooner.”

 

“You know I couldn’t.” John hadn’t had a home since he and Max were in highschool, but the smokey scent of her perfume, the itch of her sweater, the warmth, were all he needed to find a glimmer of that long lost feeling. “But I’m glad I came now.”

 

“So am I.” She wrinkled her nose as she pulled away. “Oh go shower- you smell like bus.”

 

John laughed and did as he was told, before collapsing on the half made futon for a few hours of genuine sleep. He didn’t wake up until Jack was coaxing him awake around eight that night, the smell of gloriously greasy pizza coming from the other room. John was content to drop, still half asleep, onto the old worn couch between Jack and Charles, who greeted him with a rough hand in his hair and one armed hug. The Rangers (as they’d been affectionately called since, as far as John was aware, their teenage years) had taken Max in during her second year at NYU.

 

Or rather, Max had taken a shine to Anne, and if you took a shine to Anne, her two men followed eventually. John fondly thought of the three as the definition of life partners, the romance and the sex weren’t needed, they just needed each other. And moreover, they made Max happy, now that the early tension of their arrangement had faded. They kept her safe best they could, and that was enough for John.

 

“Your hair is getting in your pizza, you toddler,” Jack said with a sigh, as Charles nudged John forward so he could braid his unruly curls and keep them from getting into his food. Max watched them with a fond smile, as John let the others passively baby him. They’d started treating him like their kid brother the day he woke up to find them in his hospital room years earlier, post accident, and had never really stopped.

 

“It’s getting long,” Charles mused, tying off the braid. “You should keep growing it out.”

 

“Make suggestions when I have actual brain cells to consider ‘em Charlie,” John mumbled, grabbing for another piece of pepperoni before settling back into place with a sigh.

 

Charles left for his night shift on the NYU security detail, John was bundled back into bed, leaving the others to do whatever it was they did on a quiet tuesday night.

 

Wednesday John finally left the apartment, wandering to the nearest bodega to get snacks for himself and for Charles, who was dead to the world in the bedroom he and Jack shared. Once he dropped the sandwich and fries, and the pair of chilled beers he knew charles liked best, in his room, John climbed out onto the fire escape outside the office window. He could see the distant grayscale giant of Manhattan. His first interview, something clerical for some magazine or another, was the next morning, in that chaos, where everyone was trying to outdo each other and just manage to survive on top of it all. He’d admit to a certain level of nerves, LA was a different beast, from its people to its ecosystem to its goddamn infrastructure.

 

There was space in LA, the desert on one side and the ocean on the other and endless jam packed highways that’d carry you as far away as you could possibly dream. And the people, the honest ones, were gritty and bright eyed, trying to make a name in the little four square feet of land their daily existence occupied. The rest were filthy rich and mostly undeserving of it, making the whole goddamn city a satire of itself. John had spent the past year in LA, going from job to job and, effectively, conning his way through the society scene, networking over organic non-gmo vegan sushi burritos and activated charcoal smoothies (ugh).

 

LA had felt like the snake oil salesman’s paradise, and until very recently, John had been content to coast and pay his bills however possible, be it shitty retail gigs or entertaining so called artists at their gallery openings or peddling the next big holistic health fad.

 

But then the same malcontent and misery of his recovery days had reared it’s mocking head in the middle of the night, and again in the morning, and suddenly, at 26 John wanted to make something of himself.

 

“You should know,” came Charles’ voice and John looked back through the widow to see him shuffling in, dressed only in boxers with his hard earned washboard abs and surgical scars on full display, bag of food in one arm, beers in the other, “I can practically hear you thinking from the next fucking room over, kid.”

 

“I didn’t think you could hear shit over your snoring.”

 

“Scoot over ya shit. Here,” Charles climbed out onto the fire escape next to him and with practiced ease, popped the bottle cap off his bottle on the metal bar next to him, before passing it to John.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“You good? I don’t think it’s fair to be doing so much thinking on just one brain cell.”

 

“I’ve got like, three now so it should be fine,” John replied and Charles laughed, unwrapping his sandwich. “Just… uneasy I guess. Trying to decide if this was a stupid idea in the end or may actually be worth something.”

 

“You ain’t gonna know if it was stupid ‘r not til it’s over. Till Halloween rolls up on your ass and you’ve been here a month.” Charles said around his food. “So I’d not waste time on that. Especially not sober.”

 

“You think this was worth it?”

 

“I think your sister is the happiest I’ve seen her in a few months, having you here. Jack is already talking about getting you a spot at the radio station if needed, to keep you here.”

 

John blinked. “He- he is?”

 

“You heard it from a lil’ blue bird or some shit not me.” Charles said, looking out over the streets below, off to the island. “But yeah, I heard him on the phone this morning.”

 

“I told him I didn’t want charity.”

 

“It’s not charity. It’s one guy who use to be in the gutter making sure someone he cares about doesn’t end up there too. That’s how this place works, kid. You can’t get by alone, no one ever did unless they rolled up in a caddy and had a bank account that’d make Vanderbilt weep.”

 

Charles had a look in his eye that made John curious. He’d never been one for personal history, not the way Jack was, with the legacy he wanted to rebuild. Far as John knew, Charles had simply tumbled into existence the day he met Jack and Anne, and any story before that didn’t matter. He knew little passing details, about his so called foster father, some big business man named Teach, who only ever got brought up when Charles and Jack were fighting. He knew Charles had gone through his own periods of gutter life and recovery. But nothing solid, the man was nothing but smoke.

 

“It’s gritty and hard and there’s two ways to survive here, honest hard work and holding onto those who you trust, and crime. And I can tell ya, the latter doesn’t get ya far, again, unless you’ve got someone-”

 

“In a caddy and Vanderbilt’s bank account?”

 

“Exactly. So if Jack does offer you a gig, don’t scoff at it. Cause it’ll only be a foot in the doorway, the rest will be on you all the hard work and conning that it takes to get you comfortable.”

 

“I’m just… used to doing it alone, ya know?”

 

“So was I, kid. But eventually, you end up needing people one way or another so.”

 

John nodded, sipping his beer as they watched the later afternoon sun slowly start to set behind them. “So long as it’s just you assholes I need, I think I can manage.”

 

Charles laughed and set aside his empty bottle. “Yeah well, it’s a city of nearly ten million people. I’d say there’s some chance of making friends, or making enemies. C’mon, finish your food and get dressed. Your sister is gonna be at the bar soon working, we can go keep her company a while.”

 

John finished his drink and packed up his left overs, following Charles back inside. It’d help, he told himself, a night just coasting a bit longer, getting his bearings. Then in the morning he’d be up early, all feigned naive enthusiasm, as he tried to convince the corporate world to hire him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets his first taste of the New York Art World and as expected, he hates pretty much everyone at the party Jack and Max drag him to. Well, maybe everyone except for the bitter ginger who seems entirely out of place among the fine suits and flashy jewelry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will admit to taking a few small liberties with the house on 96th street, more often than not they're former single family homes that have been converted into apartments and condos that cost heinous amounts of money, but among them are still a few single family buildings. Seriously don't look them up on zillow, you'll have a heart attack at the prices.

Chapter 2

 

It as honestly the last way John had wanted to spend his evening. After spending the past two days in office after office looking for someone to review his portfolio, or sitting and having his resume judged like it was his soul, the very last thing he wanted was to be trapped at a party with all the same art world elites who stuck their nose up at his work and told him he might be better suited for copy editing, or retail. 

 

But Jack had begged.

 

In the five years of their friendship, for better or more often for worse, John had not once been able to deny Jack when he begged.

 

“Eleanor is going to be there, which means even if Max comes with me in the spirit of being my lavender plus one, she is going to leave me to either make out with eleanor in the bathroom or rip her face off after the party.” Jack had said, his voice hitched in panic. “Either way I am alone at a party full of men, women, and genderless beings of aesthetic who have more money in their wallets than I have ever seen in my life- John please-”

 

John had sighed, resting his head on the kitchen bar, already resigned.

 

“Besides you said you want to work on building a network,” Jack pressed. “There’s going to be plenty of people there who have the means of making that happen if you get their attention-”

 

“I am not whoring myself out at a party-”

 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it, you fuck. C’mon John, please, for me. I swear I’ll make it up to you.”

 

John lifted his head and rolled his eyes. “I don’t have anything to wear-” his words were muffled by Jack hugging him tight and stealing a kiss.

 

“Thank you! Don’t worry I have a few things that should fit you, c’mon, we’ve only got two hours and Max is going to hog the bathroom when she gets home from work.” Jack rambled, and John let himself be dragged into the bedroom to try on clothes.

 

Dressed in Charles’ hand-me-downs, John felt more and more out of place as they reached the upper east side that evening. Jack and Max both had developed early in life the ability to blend in anywhere, to appear as if they belonged in every circle of society they chose to align themselves with. And while Max may have been in a dress she was loaning from work and designer heels that were technically a few season old, and while Jack looked more like a refined member of The Cure gone hipster in his slim cut plum suit and green ascot, they looked entirely at home as they stepped into the foyer of the old brownstone where the party was being held. 

 

That wasn’t to say that John couldn’t con his way through social functions with the best of them. He was just used to the California elite, which was a whole different monster than that of Manhattan. Out there all he had to do was play up his natural lifestyle, talk about how yoga had really eased the pain and rehabilitated him after his accident, and fawn over the newest fashionable health trend or the edgy indie band founded by a former Hollywood idol. 

 

Here he was out of his depths and so far from his comfort zone that he may as well have never learned to con a hundred dollars from a rich yuppy in the first place. 

 

“Try not to look like you’ve arrived at the inquisitor's court,” Max chided softly as an attendant took her wrap and showed them through to the main part of the house. “This is supposed to be a party.”

 

“This is a goddamn hellscape,” John hissed as she hooked arms with him, and they followed Jack. “Did you see the fucking Aston Martin outside? I mean what the  _ fuck _ -”

 

“The McGraws, our hosts, are some of the most attentive patrons of the New York and London Art scenes I know of,” she whispered. “They’re english, old money I think, I’ve only met them once or twice in passing through Ellie-”

 

“Her father knows them?”

 

“She’s interning as a paralegal at Mr McGraw’s firm.”

 

Jack turned to them just outside the parlor and fixed Johns’ collar, which didn’t need fixing. “They are the kind of old money you want to have on your side, and that is, at the end of the day, all you need to know. They’re not bigots, they’re not ugly, and they have an excellent taste in art, in wine, and in the clothes they wear so do try and put on your best pretty boy smile.”

 

John shoved his hands away. “I’ll behave.”

 

“I know you will.” Jack kissed his cheek and took a steadying breath. “And Max, darling, please wait to claw out Eleanor’s eyes until after the party has ended.”

 

“Bite me, Jack.” She replied, sweeping past him and into the party. 

 

John steadied himself and followed.

 

The first floor of the house was comprised of two sitting rooms and a library, all open to allow the guests to meander as they pleased. John could see a small but well curated garden through the high windows and ornate french doors at the back of the room, open into the cooling, early October evening. Two open bars stood attending to the guests, a few tables with food set here and there so no one had to go far for a bite to eat. It was all planned with the careful detail to appear effortless, just as the decor worked hard to appear classical and tasteful without being stuffy and overbearing. 

 

“Rackham! You made it!”

 

John felt Jack tense up next to him at the cheery voice, before he settled into the easy smile and casual saunter that meant he was playing a role. The man who called to him appeared out of the crowd with a bright, seemingly genuine smile of his own and John nearly stepped back in surprise.

 

Jack was the tallest in their friend group, sitting comfortably at five ten and some change. But the man who approached easily had three or four inches on him, made more impressive by his broad shoulders in a well tailored floral shirt and his high cheekbones. John felt oddly small.

 

“Mr. McGraw, always a pleasure,” Jack said with a slight bow that most would find mocking. Mr. McGraw merely laughed and hugged him in that light, casual way John assumed came with the trust fund. 

 

“I’ve told you time and again-It’s Thomas, please. The surname makes me feel like I’m with a client.” 

 

“Thomas,” Jack conceded. “Because I don’t make enough to be your client.”

 

The sarcastic edge of Jack’s voice seemed to charm their host, his mild laughter making his eyes glint with amusement. “I’d offer pro bono if I didn’t think your pride would make you refuse- I saw Max, lovely as always. No Anne tonight?”

 

“No she’s stuck helping a student with their thesis.” Jack nudged John forward. “So I brought Max’s brother instead, I hope that’s alright.” 

 

“Of course, the more the merrier.” Thomas offered his hand to John. “A pleasure Mister-”

 

“Just John.” John took his hand and put on his best con man smile. 

 

“Just John,” Thomas repeated. “A Pleasure.”

 

John felt like he was suddenly under a magnifying glass, the way Thomas watched him a tad more calculating than he was used to when playing nice with the wealthy. “Likewise.”

 

“Please, grab a drink, make yourselves at home.” Thomas said, slinging an arm around Jack’s thin shoulders and guiding him into the party. “There’s the auction in the garden as discussed in the invitation, Jack, so the vinyl collection your radio show donated is out there if you want to make sure it’s displayed just the way you like-”

 

Thomas guided them both through the crowd, the people parting easily for him like some enchanted sea. He pointed out a few guests he felt were worth introducing them to, and threw in a couple names of who to avoid, before setting them loose and vanishing to play host elsewhere in the house.

 

“ _ That _ is McGraw?” John asked once Thomas was well out of earshot.

 

“That is McGraw. Why, surprised?”

 

“I was expecting a rich old fuck with a bald patch not a contender for the next James Bond.”

 

Jack laughed as he tugged John over to the closest bar to fix them drinks, John’s more sparkling water than anything. “He surprises a lot of people who meet him. You say patron of the arts and immediately you think of a decrepit old Rockefeller type.”

 

“That half a suit probably cost more than my entire life savings.” John mused.

 

“Oh it does. Saville Row I’m told.”

 

“God he’s english.”

 

“C’mon, let’s make the rounds and check on Max. I saw Eleanor haunting the fringes of the room, no doubt they’ll find each other soon.”

 

They did their rounds of the room, checking in on Max who had in fact caught sight of her ex- Jack pointed out an icy blonde in a fine green suit when John scanned the crowd for the infamous Eleanor Guthrie. She was as stunning and as terrifying as John had imagined, her blonde hair cut into a trendy bob, martini held in her hand with an air of nonchalance as she listened to a pair of guests argue politics alongside an imposing looking red headed man. 

Jack introduced him to a few theater people- stage directors and actors who worked off broadway and taught at Columbia or Julliard or whatever the most relevant school of the day was. They chatted aimlessly with a pair of gallery owners, close acquaintances of the McGraws and the Guthries they said with an air of superiority that made John want to gag. He met a gaggle of aspiring models, a few interns from the firm where Thomas worked as a corporate lawyer, another teacher or two, and even a few everyday members of well to do society- the kind who lived off their investments and hadn’t worked a day in their goddamn lives.

 

Internally, John hated more or less all of them.

 

Externally he smiled, let them talk, and learned quickly when to speak, when to praise, when to provoke. Within the first hour he felt almost as comfortable as he did back in California. 

He was easily drawn into one conversation or another, when someone needed an outside opinion to prove their point or needed someone to smile in feigned awe at how successful they were. He listened politely and catalogued names and faces and occupations, in case they ever met in the future. He spoke with enough vagueness about his own life to make it sound like he was part of their world, on the fringes, growing into the position of wealth and respect the way Jack and Max had done a few years earlier. 

 

To these people, John Silver was a mystery, as much a character as Jack Rackham had been when he first appeared on the New York art scene. All John needed to do was be interesting enough to spark curiosity, to leave them saying his name after he had left the conversation. Leave enough of an impression to be remembered, as something greater than he was.

 

It had worked well enough in California, and while the New York Elite wore a three piece designer suit instead of a designer swimsuit, they were the same creature at heart- waiting and ready to be conned into thinking they’d found the next best high before anyone else.

 

Around nine the auction began and most of the party goers moved out into the garden, leaving the few uninterested patrons to linger by the food tables and the bar. John didn’t hear the announcement, too caught up in the first conversation to hold his attention all night, trying his best not to escalate it into an argument.

 

“There just isn’t an appreciation in today’s generations for the fine arts,” the man said, his friend nodding sagely. John didn’t remember their names and frankly he didn’t much care. “The youth-” god John hated him- “is simply uncultured and only values garbage dressed as finery-”

 

“As a member of the so called youth,” John said dryly, grip tight on his glass. “I take mild offense to that. It isn’t that the younger generations don’t care, sir, it’s that fine art, as whole, is utterly inaccessible to anyone who falls into the middle and working classes.”

 

“That’s absurd- you’re making this a classism debate when it’s not-”

 

“But it is. All those who find themselves in the art world have done so because of wealthy patrons, because their parents had the right connections and the right income. Look at the renaissance masters,” John argued, and damn he was invested. “All of them were only able to create their masterpieces because of filthy rich patrons with too much time and too much vanity and no artistic skill of their own. So the wealthy members of society create a world where art is only reached by those with the means.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone approaching, leaning against the bar as they listened to his argument with what John hoped was agreement. He really didn’t need to ruin his chances because someone hit his trigger point as a broke gay artist.

 

“We have countless museums that allow people to visit the galleries whenever they so choose!” Mister Bald Spot argued. “And instead they spend all their time on their phones or hooked up to this twitter nonsense, instead of educating themselves-”

 

“Most museums have hours that only cater to those who don’t work a forty hour or more work week. Most have entrance fees that are the equivalent to a tank of gas, or groceries, and those that don’t are miles away from low income neighborhoods and cities,” John said. “I’m not trying to excuse the entirety of my generation, but as an artist myself, it isn’t an easy world to find a way into.”

 

The men bristled and fumbled for a reply, but before they could, the newcomer spoke up.

 

“He’s right. Many museums are trying to make their collections more accessible, but it’s still a fucked system,” he said, and John turned to thank him, only to find the imposing redhead who’d been keeping Eleanor Guthrie company. “And the way most are trying to make it more accessible is with those newfangled technologies you seem to hold so much disdain for, Edgar.”

 

John tried not to smile at his unimpressed tone, clipped with a well to do london accent, while the older men tried to defend themselves. 

 

“But you’re part of the industry! How can you just act like it isn’t a generational shift-”

 

“The only generational shift I see is that the kids today refuse to accept the abuse from older generations who claim they’re too dumb to appreciate fine art.” He said flatly. “Your wives are looking for you,” he added before they could react to the blatant insult. “Apparently they want to bid on the auction and are pretending to care about your opinions.”

 

John watched as the two men left, joining the crowd in the garden. “What a pair of bastards.”

 

The redhead huffed bitterly. “Edgar and Wallace are a perfect example of the kind of people whose deaths will better the world. Their wives however are excellent patrons to the arts so we tolerate them.” He offered his hand. “You’re Max’s brother, right?”

 

“Yeah, John Silver.” John took his hand with that same easy smile he wore when he met each new face. “Thank you, for the support Mister-”

 

“Just James, please.”

 

“James. Thank you, for backing me up with them. You can never win with boomers can you?”

 

“Nope. Especially not rich ones.” He looked John over. “Max said you’re visiting from California?”

 

“Santa Cruz, yeah. And visiting for now, I’m told the city doesn’t always make it easy to leave.”

 

“No, it doesn’t.” He looked up at the sound of laughter from the garden and John got the chance to look him over in return.

 

John was intrigued. This James didn’t stand the way the rest did, didn’t exude the same air of superior bullshit and self important vanity. He leaned against the bar in his worn jeans and fitted black sweater, like he was at a dive bar waiting for a punk show to begin, his long red hair tied up in a bun at the back of his head, his beard and mustache trimmed to achieve that effortless look. John could see several tattoos peeking out from under the hem of his sweater and it’s rolled up sleeves, a crown of laurels on the back of his neck, a swallow on each hand. A heavy fishhook hung from a leather cord around his neck, matching silver hoops lining his ears. 

 

“They said you were in the industry, what is it you do?” John asked. 

 

“Hm? Oh, museum work.”

 

“Does it pay well?”

 

“The MET does.” James looked back at him. “I’m on their restoration team.”

 

“That’s- more than just museum work-”

 

“You don’t strike me as someone who gets off on people bragging about their occupations, no matter how attentive you’ve been tonight. Or am I wrong?” James asked, smirking faintly around the rim of his glass. 

 

John felt oddly exposed. It wasn’t often that someone, especially a stranger, so easily saw through his act. He had been so careful, he’d thought, never kissing up to much, asking all the right questions, blending into the crowd just enough-

 

James must have seen his unease because his smile widened, all sharp white teeth. “I know a broke artist when I see one. Even when you’re salaried, you never quite forget all the years you couldn’t make rent and the way it showed.”

 

“Am I that obvious?” John asked with a nervous laugh.

 

“Nah, everyone who’s mentioned you tonight thinks you’re just another new face on the scene, a rising star in your chosen profession.” James shrugged again. “It helps that you came with Rackham and Max, they’re favorites amongst the crowd. They’re very good at schmoozing just enough to be liked.”

 

“They were born with the skill.”

 

“Clearly, they do it more naturally than anyone I’ve ever seen. But then I’ve never been good at the whole schmoozing thing.” James scowled when he caught sight of Edgar and Wallace making their way back inside. “Fucks sake, round two approaches.”

 

“Maybe if we seem really invested in our debate they’ll turn tail,” John stage whispered, as James busied himself in fixing another round of drinks for them both. “After all, I’m currently being put in my place by a curator of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”

 

James snorted. “Oh good, you’re a Smart ass.”

 

“If I wasn’t I’d be a terrible cliche now wouldn’t I?” John said with a smile, tossing his head like damsel. He was oddly satisfied in the grin it got from James.

 

“Ah, James, now I wanted to follow up on your point from earlier-” Edgar, or was it Wallace, interupted, is cheeks ruddy with an extra glass of wine.

 

“Actually, Edgar, I was just about to show John here the museum’s social media accounts, to see if he felt our attempts at reaching the general public were genuine efforts or simply pandering to the need to be socially conscious.” James replied, resting his hand on John’s shoulder. “We’re always looking for the input of a young industry professional to better our systems. If you’ll excuse me-”

 

He steered John towards the foyer and leaned in. “Pretend to be completely enraptured with what I have to say and keep moving-” He hissed in John’s ear.

 

“But James I-” Edgar called after them.

 

“No you see, John, that’s where social outreach is of paramount importance,” James continued louder. “If the museum isn’t making the attempt to draw in students then they’ve got no foundation to stand on-”

 

“But if you’re only reaching out to private schools then how are you really changing anything?” John replied, throwing on a tone of disapproval for good measure as they left the living room and found themselves in the empty foyer, Edgar and Wallace well and truly left behind. 

 

“Sonnova bitch that actually worked,” James said in surprise as he lead John upstairs. 

 

“Did you think it wouldn’t?”

 

“That’s not my usual trick. I usually just tell people to fuck off but then I didn’t want to undo all your hard work. It’s not easy schmoozing all night.” James shook his head with a huff. “I’d never hear the end of it from Rackham if I fucked over your chances so early.”

 

“You and Jack are friends?” John asked.

 

“In a sense. We’ve met through work functions a few times, and he’s done a few journalism pieces on the galleries that I helped him with. That man can annoy a story out of anyone.”

 

“Yeah that’s his skillset, annoying people into embarrassing themselves. I told him he should go into investigative journalism but he’s insistent on sticking to culture.” 

 

“One day he’ll get pissed off enough with rich assholes and decide ruining them is far more satisfying,” James waved John into the second room at the top of the winding stairs, the sound of the party muffled by the blissful distance. “Did he bully you into tagging along?”

 

“Worse,” John said, looking around at the much larger library, as James went to the bar cart to replace the drinks they abandoned down stairs. “He begged.”

 

James winced. “I knew he’d be the type to pull puppy eyes to get what he wants.”

 

John laughed and skimmed the shelves. “Are we allowed to be up here?”

 

“Yeah, Thomas won’t care. I usually need a breather from his parties anyway.” James passed him a drink, the glass filled halfway with a rich honey colored liquor and ice. 

 

“Any idea why he has two libraries? Seems a bit excessive.”

 

“The one downstairs is for company. None of the books or furniture hold any real value whatsoever, it’s just meant to be something to show off or play a role depending on who comes to dinner.” James dropped into a chair, watching John poke around. “This is the actual library.”

 

“I’m still wrapping my head around private libraries being a thing in this day and age. Haven’t even begun processing the concept of having a fake library alongside it.”

 

“Yeah, rich people are weird like that. So, turn about being fair play, what is it you do, mister overly opinionated millennial artist?”

 

“I’m- well I’m trying to get into the theater business.” John fiddled with his glass.  

 

“Acting?”

 

“Writing.”

 

James blinked and let out a low whistle. “A playwright, that’s a rarity even at these parties. And usually they’re in their sixties. You’re what, just out of highschool?”

 

“You’re mocking me.” 

 

“Just a little.” James admitted. “But then you’re gonna get a lot of shit regardless. Theater is harder to get into than art in some ways.”

 

“Tell me about it. That’s why I’m here. California just… Theater bows to the film sets and the only real work you can get is children’s acting troupes and copyediting terrible film scripts, if you know the right person.”

 

“Hoping to start over just like every other starving artist who comes to new york?”

 

John sighed. “No. I know how that story ends and its rarely happy. I needed a fresh perspective, needed to get my portfolio looked at by fresh eyes. Max offered to house me for a few weeks while I got my shit together.”

 

“Nice of her. You two close?”

 

“All we have, or we were, until she found Jack and Anne. Then they became a packaged deal.”

 

James regarded him for a moment. “No one waiting in California for you then.”

 

It wasn’t a question and John sensed a note of melancholic familiarity in his tone. 

 

“Nope. So here I am. I’ve got a few meetings set up with directors and editors to try and fine tune my work and see if maybe I could cut it on this coast. Then I can figure out whether I’m staying or not.”

 

James raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to having more balls than most artists your age. May it all play out in your favor.”

 

John smiled, ears burning a bit as he lifted his glass and sipped it. “Alright, turn about again- how did you get into art history? No offense but you don’t exactly look like-”

 

“An art nerd? Now who’s playing on cliches-”

 

“Oh c’mon, you look like you could bench press me! All the art kids I knew growing up looked like Jack, like noodly twinks in skinny jeans.”

 

James snorted, choking a little on his drink as he laughed, as if he was surprised by his own laughter. “Alright fair.”

 

“So how did you end up at the MET?”

 

“Ex military, needed something to do when I retired from active duty.”

 

John stared at him. “So you- chose art? Again, not quite making sense here.”

 

“Hey even meathead gi joes can have an appreciation for aesthetics, ya shit.”

 

It was John’s turn to laugh as he dropped into the chair across from James. He could hear the party outside in the garden, faint voices through the open window. “Are they called gi joes in england too?”

 

“Fuck if I know what they’re called, I was Royal Navy.” James waved his hand. “Alright, why theater?”

 

“You still haven’t explained why art!”

 

“You tell me why you picked theater and I’ll tell you why I picked art. One broke artist to one former broke artist.”

 

John figured he could accept the compromise, and sat back in his arm chair to try and work his affinity for the stage into words that made sense to someone who just didn’t see it the same way. He gave a less than perfect cookie cutter answer, one that revealed next to nothing about his true devotion to the craft, about his upbringing or lack thereof. It was the same kind of bullshit answer he gave nearly everyone who asked why he went into theater, something about the Majesty of the stage and the whimsy of a good story. But for the first time, John couldn’t shake the feeling that James wasn’t buying his story for a moment.

 

James didn’t interrupt, he didn’t correct him or press in the way a suspicious colleague might, when confronted with a fraud. And maybe that was the effect of apparently being in John’s shoes before, knowing what it was to be a fraud trying to make it in the world they weren’t born into. He just listened and watched with unsettlingly keen green eyes.

 

But before John could backtrack, before he could fill in the gaps and better his story, the topic changed. James was asking his opinion on classical theater, on what plays someone should read if they wanted to cultivate an appreciation for the art.

 

No one asked John’s opinion, and when John offered the standard so called classics that most people read in english class, James shook his head.

 

“I don’t want to read what Wallace and Edgar would recommend. I want to know which plays did it for you.” He said, sitting back and toying with his necklace. “Anyone can recommend fucking- Death of a Salesman or Glass Menagerie.”

 

“Does that mean they aren’t good plays?” John replied.

 

“No, but it doesn’t mean they are, either. Something becomes a classic when it never finishes saying what it needs to say. Sometimes that just means it never finishes wasting everyone’s goddamn time.” 

 

John considered him and smiled. “My English teachers would have hated you.”

 

“Good. I’d probably hate them just as much. Now, which plays would you put in your library?”

 

_ What plays would you keep in your library _ became  _ what art pieces did everyone need to know _ . That in turn became  _ which authors in classic literature were overrated and over recommended _ .  _ Which ones weren’t given the respect they were due? Okay, which poet did you hate most in high school? Which poet did you read on your own? _

 

The talked, and talked, and John lost track of the time, lost track of his phone. They discussed EM Forster and Sassoon, about whether Anne Rice deserved the fame and recognition she had for resurrecting the Vampire genre, about whether Rodin really deserved the credit for half of his most famous sculptures. They argued, though John was relieved that it remained good natured, about the Lost Generation, about Zelda Fitzgerald and her shit of a husband, about the role of Gender in Hemingway.

 

John hadn’t felt so alive in years, not since the accident, not since Max had moved to New York for good. He was digging through his mental library for facts and dates and verses he hadn’t referenced or even thought about in ages, some forgotten for over a decade. 

 

All because some goddamn ginger stranger in tight pants and a man bun had asked his opinion and left a funny feeling in his chest. 

 

The tolling of the clock above the fireplace roused John from his rant on how inaccessible Broadway had become and suddenly the half an hour he’d thought had passed was really four hours and the two of them were still seated in their chairs.

 

“What’s wrong?” James asked as John blinked at the clock.

 

“Is- is it really one am?”

 

The sound of the party had vanished, the house around them quiet save for the muted sounds of jazz playing from the living room below. John pulled out his phone and it too betrayed his sense of time, the screen reading 1:07 am and letting him know he’d missed two calls from Jack.

 

James muttered a curse and checked his watch. “Fucking look at that. Missed the whole party we did.” 

 

“James?” came Thomas’s voice from the stairs. “Oh Jaaames where are you hiding?”

 

“In here-” James called in reply, stretching with a soft groan. 

 

John jumped when the library door opened and Thomas poked his head in, a bottle of champagne in hand. “Oh! Look at you making friends!”

 

“Oh fuck off Thomas,” James grumbled, finishing his forgotten drink.

 

“John, we had wondered where you’d disappeared to, Jack thought you took a cab home when the auction started.” Thomas said, coming to sit on the arm of James’ chair, pouring champagne into his tumbler. “And here I find you letting my husband talk your ear off.”

 

James grinned at the startled look on John’s face, knocking back the champagne. 

 

“Husband?” John managed.

 

James and Thomas each raised their left hand, where the tell tale rings sat comfortably on their fingers, each smiling as if they’d managed some sort of clever trick.

 

“I- I- actually this makes sense, you knew too much about gay World War One poetry to be straight.” John said finally and Thomas nearly spat out the champagne he’d begun to drink, dissolving into a fit of wheezing laughter.

 

James just smiled at him, almost smug. “I aspire to never been mistaken for a heterosexual, John, that is the most important thing to know about me. About either of us.”

 

“God, did you tell him- John I swear to you,” Thomas said after gasping for air. “I swear to you whenever James introduces himself as McGraw, there’s always one asshole who thinks we’re brothers.”

 

“What? You don’t even look alike!”

 

John watched the two of them laugh, watched Thomas reach over and let James’ hair out of it’s messy bun so he could run his fingers through it, watched as James leaned into him like a cat, and felt- 

 

Lacking. 

 

Lonely.

 

Wanting.

 

Which really just didn’t make any fucking sense.

 

John blinked as he realized Thomas had spoken. “What?”

 

“You’re staying with your sister right?” Thomas asked again. “She lives in Weehawken doesn’t she?”

 

“Uh yeah she does. Gonna have to figure out how I’m getting home if they left already.”

 

Thomas winced. “They left an hour ago. Separately mind you, I saw Max leaving with Eleanor.”

 

“Shit. He probably called me to tell me.”

 

“Sorry John, I didn’t realize how much time had passed,” James began to say but John shook his head. 

 

“I enjoyed our talk, far more than I was enjoying the party, no offense Thomas-”

 

Thomas shrugged, taking another drink from the champagne bottle. ”none taken. James hates when we throw parties.”

 

“I’m- gonna try and call Jack, if you’ll excuse me for a second.”

 

John slipped out into the hallway and listened to the voicemails. The first was Jack demanding, in a hoarse whisper, where the fuck was he  _ the party was in full swing so help me John if you’ve gone home I’m going to kill you. _

 

The second was timed about the hour Thomas said Jack and Max had said goodnight, Jack saying he hoped John _got home ok because Charles was getting off work and wanted to grab some real food so he was going to the bronx to pick him up, goodnight babe, see you tomorrow_.

 

If Jack was with Charles John knew damn well he wasn’t going to answer his phone. Which left John stuck on th upper east side with the only solution to getting home a very costly cab fare.

 

“He not picking up?” Thomas asked, making John jump. The man made next to no sound when he moved, leaning against the doorframe to the library with a worried expression.

 

“Ah, no, he’s getting laid apparently,” John said with a sigh. “So I’m… gonna figure out how to get back to Weehawken at one am-”

 

“That’s right you’re not from around here, fucking hell. No, you know what I’ve got a better idea-”

 

“I don’t have another option-”

 

“Just spend the night, grab the train in the morning.” Thomas said. “We’ve got a guest room, that way you don’t risk getting lost in the middle of the night. Even if Manhattan is a grid system, you’re going to Jersey and I don’t know if I like the idea of you making that trek alone for the first time.”

 

John stared at him. “What-”

 

“James? Babe you alright if John spends the night?” Thomas asked over his shoulder.

 

“Wait-” John tried again.

 

“Sure, why not.” Came James’ voice. “Rackham will kill us if Max’s little brother goes missing. Hell, Max will kill us.”

 

“Wait it isn’t-”

 

“Great, then it’s settled.” Thomas beamed and pushed off the doorframe. “C’mon I’ll show you around.”

 

He didn’t seem to hear John’s stammering as he walked off, James taking his place in the doorway with a tired, almost sheepish expression. Almost.

 

“Sorry. He tends to tune out arguments when he sets his mind to something,” he said and John stared at him.

 

“I- you don’t even know me why would you let me stay the night-” John managed to say, as James headed for the stairs that went to the top floor of the house. John nearly swallowed his tongue when James pulled off his sweater, leaning shirtless over the banister, his hair framing his face. John did his best to keep his eyes on his face and not the elaborate chest piece in front of him, or the stocky build of James’ torso or the trail of ginger hair along his stomach that one couldn’t miss.

 

“Because the chances of you getting lost on your way home are just high enough to make the risk not worthwhile, in our case. I don’t need your sister clawing my eyes out or emasculating me over something so trivial.” James said, as if it was obvious. 

 

“I-”

 

“John? John, love, c’mon,” Thomas called from the other end of the hall and between the sing song tune in his voice and the smug sirk on James’ face, John could feel his resolve fracturing.

 

“Th-thanks, I guess.” he said after a moment and James hummed, heading up the stairs. 

 

“See you in the morning,” he called over his shoulder, and John was left to follow Thomas.

 

Thomas smiled that same bright smile, and John was beginning to think it was genuine, and hooked an arm around his shoulders as he showed him around. The second floor held the library, the private living room, the kitchen, and the dining room, though Thomas explained they usually had breakfast on the balcony that connected to the kitchen. 

 

“Have at the kitchen if you get hungry, I’m sure you didn’t eat much at the party,” Thomas told him, leading him up to the top floor. “Your room is here, there’s an en-suite bathroom so you can wash up if you like. James and I are at the other end of the hall just there-” 

 

He pointed at the open door that let golden light and soft jazz music spill into the hallway. John thought he could hear James’ humming along.

 

“Are- I really don’t want to be trouble, I’m sure I can get a cab back to Jersey,” John said, his last faltering argument as Thomas nudged him gently into the guest room.

 

“Nonsense. It’s hardly a trouble. Our guest rooms never see the use they ought to. Now, if you need anything, just shout, like I said we’re just down the hall.” Thomas said, giving his shoulder a squeeze. 

 

John thanked him, and watched as he made his way back down the hallway, lazily dancing as he went. He watched him disappear into the bedroom, hear James laugh softly at whatever he said. And again, he felt oddly lonely. And again, it made no damn sense.

 

With a sigh, he turned to the guest room, barely seeing it as the long day started to hit him, the ache from his prosthetic suddenly poignant and vivid, his shoulders tight as he shed the hand me downs he wore. He texted Max and Jack, and Anne for good measure, just so no one could yell at him in the morning.

 

He felt like he’d stepped into the twilight zone, moving in a haze as he showered and washed his hair with the rich floral soaps in the guest shower. What kind of people just welcomed strangers into their home? Certainly not anyone John had ever known. But maybe that wasn’t a bad thing- he’d always wondered how the other half lived. He’d assume in arrogance and gluttony, keeping everyone else at arms reach so their wealth and luxuries, no matter how small, were left unspoiled.

 

Thomas and James seemed to throw that entire concept by the wayside in everything they did, at least from the short time he had spent around them.

 

Maybe it was just cause they were gay, John reasoned, collapsing onto the bed with a groan, not bothering to pull on his underwear and undershirt as he burrowed under the covers. That was it, they’d grown up being marginalized, maybe that meant they didn’t develop the shitty disposition most privileged fucks did. Maybe, he wondered.  The mattress greeted him with warm open arms, plush and nicer than any he’d ever slept on, the open window letting in enough cool predawn air that smelled like the garden below. 

 

As he drifted off he thought he could hear singing, faint voices in a duet, some old love song that faded into the gentle melody of a piano. It made him smile.

 

They were still rich assholes, the house alone proved it. But, John told himself, maybe he could forgive them for that. After all, it was a slice of the fantasy that had carried him and his sister through the darkest hours of the night, all those years ago in Santa Cruz. It was nice to see that it did exist, even if it might always be out of his reach. 

 

When John woke up in the morning, it was to a face full of thick white fur and the loud content purring of the cat curled up on his pillow. John scrambled back across the bed, coughing to rid his mouth of fur. The cat, a massive white creature with a bushy tail and two different color eyes, looked vaguely offended at his reaction stretching out in the warm spot he had left.

 

He stared at it as he tried desperately to remember where he was. It took a moment, but then the sound of faint music from the kitchen below, carried up through the open windows and mixed with the ambient noise of the city in the morning, helped jog his memory.

 

He was uptown, Upper East Side. The brownstone. The McGraws had insisted he spend the night-

 

John dropped back onto the bed with a groan as the initial wave of panic started to fade. He hadn’t woken up in a stranger’s house in years but he was bitterly glad that the fear it instilled with him hadn’t worn off.

 

The cat purred louder, curling up against his arm as John stared at the ceiling, the detailed moulding intricate and drawing his gaze here and there. He hadn’t really looked at the room the night before, too caught up in being flustered with Thomas and James. But like the rest of the house, the guest room, or suite really as John noticed the size of it, was decorated to look effortlessly classical. The fabrics were jewel toned to contrast with the white linens, the walls a delicate color to pair with the dark wood of the floor and the furniture. There was even a lightly decorated bookshelf built into the wall. 

 

God, John reasoned, the whole room probably cost more than the entirety of his sister’s apartment.

 

The cat meowed at him as John reached over to the bedside table for his phone, voicing his protest at being jostled. It was just past eight am, and he had yet to receive a text for either Jack or Max. Anne at least, was glad to know he wasn’t dead. He sighed and set his phone back down, at a loss for what to do. 

 

Did he do his best to dress and slip out without being noticed, leaving a thank you note so he didn’t have to face the McGraws? If he had hoped to succeed at that he should have set his alarm for five am and left before they woke up.

 

Or did he go down to the kitchen, where one of them was clearly already at work, if the music and the smell of food as anything to go by. Did he face them, thank them, and try to puzzle out why they were just- so weird, before trekking back to Jersey? 

 

It was Saturday, none of the offices or studios he had been hoping to visit took appointments on the weekend, so in truth he had nowhere else to be. Max would likely be with Eleanor all weekend. Jack was probably back in Weehawken by now, curled up with Charles as he caught up on much needed sleep. His list of excuses for leaving without saying goodbye was weak at best. 

 

And it wasn’t like he was making a walk of shame, he hadn’t slept with anyone. Two very insistent queers had just talked him into crashing at their place for a night, what was weird about that? 

 

Hadn’t he spent the night at random houses all the time in his early twenties? 

 

How was this any different? 

 

Because this time, John thought with a sigh, this time he was sober, single, a stranger in a strange city, and he was curious in ways he had never been before.

 

“Your owners are giving me a migraine,” he told the cat, who merely chirped in agreement and snuggled closer.

 

He wallowed in bed for another half hour, until the cat rose and trotted off to some other adventure in another part of the house, leaving John to roll out of the ridiculously comfortable bed, slip on his prosthetic, and find his clothes.

 

Except his clothes weren’t in the bathroom where he had left them. He’d showered, leaving his clothes in a pile by the door he assumed was a closet, only now they were nowhere to be found.

 

Instead there was a clear dry cleaning bag hanging from the hook on the door, with clothes John had never seen before. Attached was a note.

 

_ We sent dry cleaning out today, sent your suit along with it. Hope these fit- TM _

 

John stared at the note, then at the clothes, and cursed under his breath. 

 

God rich people were infuriating. 

 

On a whim, John opened the closet door, only to see a smaller bedroom on the other side instead of the linen closet he had expected. Likely another guest room, but it at least explained how Thomas had gotten into the bathroom without sneaking through his room. 

 

John sighed and closed the door, staring at the clothes. He didn’t really have a choice, did he? If he refused, he was stuck in the nude in a house with almost strangers. 

 

So, cursing the eccentricities of the rich under his breath, he washed his face and helped himself to the tray of moisturizers and toners and cologne, before getting dressed in the clothes Thomas had left him, pointedly not reading the brand labels. It was too early for him to break out in hives because of their cost. 

 

The black turtle neck was softer than anything John had ever worn, the collar loose and easy on his throat, the sleeves just the right length. The jeans, gray and slim cut, fit like a glove. He tried not to think too much about how neither McGraw had his build, which meant the clothes couldn’t be their hand me downs. He tried his damndest not to think about it, brushing out his curls into something presentable and slipping on his shoes. He grabbed his phone and looked himself over in the mirror.

 

The clothes looked a thousand times better than Charles’ old suit had, and for a brief moment John almost felt confident in them. 

 

Then he had to go downstairs and face his hosts.

 

The kitchen was alive with what sounded like French Jazz and the sounds of cooking. John poked his head around the door to see James, in a tank top and sweats, busy at the stove, his long hair tied up in a messy bun. The doors were thrown open to the sunny balcony, where John could almost see the sleeping form of Thomas on the daybed, another large cat curled up on his chest.

 

John’s presence was announced by the white cat, who was busy wrapping itself around James’ legs. He winced as it began to yowl, until James hushed him and looked up from the stove.

 

“Marlowe shut up, you’re not getting any bacon, I’m not your father- Oh, morning,” he said, nodding in greeting to John. “C’mon in and grab some coffee if you want. The pot just finished.”

 

“Uh, yeah, alright thanks.” John muttered, doing as he was told and fetching one of the mugs set out on the kitchen island next to the steaming coffee pot. 

 

“Didn’t get the chance to ask but you aren’t vegan right?” James asked.

 

“No why?”

 

James lifted a skillet filled with frying eggs, bacon sizzling happily in the second pan that sat in front of him. “Only thing that gets Thomas through a hangover-”

 

“I am not hungover, you fuck.” Thomas argued from the daybed, startling John as he stretched and sat up, cuddling the second giant of a cat to his chest. 

 

“Of course you’re not.”

 

“It’s a headache that’s all.”

 

“Sure babe,” James said, flipping the eggs onto a plate and swatting at the white cat who tried to steal them. “Shoo. Fuck off, Marlowe, what have I told you-”

 

John snorted as the cat tried to climb up James’ leg in retaliation to being shooed.

 

“Thomas get your son-” James snapped, cursing as the cat dug its claws in and held on to his thigh.

 

Thomas, laughing all the while, set down the cat in his arms and carefully pulled Marlowe off of his husband’s leg, letting him curl around his shoulders, its claws hooked in the pale pink fabric of his nightshirt. “Marlowe darling you know better than to beg.”

 

“If you didn’t feed him from the table he wouldn’t beg, Thomas.” James grumbled, setting the plate of eggs and bacon on the island in front of John. 

 

“Yeah yeah,” Thomas poured himself a cup off coffee, Marlowe still laying on his shoulders. “He acts like he doesn’t leave fish and chicken out for them some nights after dinner.”

 

John laughed softly. “They’re beautiful cats. What breed?”

 

“Maine coons. Oh, here,” Thomas reached over and pulled a tuft of white hair from John’s curls. “I take it Marlowe was your wake up call this morning.”

 

“He was yes.”

 

“That one is Shakespeare,” Thomas said, waving to the other cat who was seated at James’ feet, pointedly not begging, just watching, his tortoiseshell tail flicking back and forth.

 

“God you two are nerds.”

 

“Guilty,” James said with a shrug. He grabbed extra plates and set them down in front of Thomas and John, before dishing out a bowl of hash browns. John watched, Thomas going out to the balcony for a moment and calling down to the garden, as James tossed Shakespeare a piece of bacon.

 

“Hypocrite.” 

 

James just pressed a finger to his lips, as he set the bowl of hashbrowns on the table. “Sleep ok?”

 

“Yeah, I did.” John watched the way he moved about the kitchen, an itch under his skin that he wanted to blame on the sweater. “Thanks for the clothes, by the way.”

 

“The clothes?” James asked, looking over with a frown. He stilled when he saw what John was wearing. “Oh.”

 

Thomas rejoined them, setting Marlowe down on the daybed as he passed. “Do they fit okay? I wasn’t entirely sure of your size-”

 

“They’re fine, thank you. You didn’t have to send my suit out-”

 

“I know but it seemed practical, this way you won’t have to send it out when you get home.” Thomas said with a wave of his hand, reaching out with careful fingers to fix the collar of the turtleneck. “They suit you.”

 

John did his best to hold still as he did, his gaze shifting to James-

 

Who was still staring, the tips of his ears red. 

 

“I’ll have these washed and sent back to you as soon as possible,” John promised.

 

“Keep them, they don’t fit either of us anymore.” Thomas insisted, dropping into his chair. “They best go to someone who can get a good use out of them.” 

 

“He’s right.” James agreed, finally finding his voice. “Keep them.”

 

John didn’t feel like fighting them both. He just nodded and sipped his coffee. 

 

Thomas insisted they eat on the balcony, John following as they relocated. The cats joined them, curling up on the daybed next to Thomas, and as James got his own coffee, a dog (though John wouldn’t have been shocked if it was a small bear) came trotting happily into the kitchen, following James so he could settle at his feet after saying hello to John. 

 

“Oh and that’s Ody,” Thomas said around a mouthful of eggs.

 

“Ody?”

 

“Odysseus,” James said, flushing in what had to be embarrassment.

 

“That’s adorable,” John said flatly, and he meant it.

 

James’ face flushed even more, and he hid it behind his coffee cup. The bright pink color drew John’s eyes, as it spread down his neck, where a pair of hickies sat just under his jaw, another pair above his collar bone. 

 

John very quickly looked away, before his mind could run away with the image. Though when he looked back at the table, Thomas was watching him with fond curiosity. But as John busied himself with his food, he let his gaze drop, keeping his small grin to himself.

 

“So,” Thomas said, as they finished. “James told me you’re visiting for a few weeks?”

 

“Uhm, originally the idea was three weeks, but Max is adamant I stay as long as needed to sort out…” John waved a hand as if to encompass all of him.

 

“What does work have to say about an indefinite vacation?”

 

“Oh I quit. Before I left I quit.” John said with a shrug.

 

“What if you end up back in California?” James asked

 

“I have a few places I can apply to that are likely to take me. It’s not the ideal outcome but it’s something.” John fiddled with his empty mug. “It was a shit job anyway, working retail, so good riddance.”

 

“So you hope to get a job here then, to determine if you stay,” Thomas said as if to clarify, his brow furrowed ever so slightly.

 

“Ideally yeah I guess. But I’m realistic, I know it’s unheard of to get a job in a month. So- we’ll see I guess. I don’t want to overwhelm Max and Jack so if a month comes and I haven’t found a reason to stay, I’ll probably head back west.”

 

“Reasonable, yes. And you’ve got something to rest on when you go back right? Financially?”

 

“Thomas that’s not our business-” James chided.

 

“I’m just- I’m not trying to pry John I’m sorry. It’s just such a gamble and while it’s braver than what many people I know would be willing to do, I can’t help but wonder,” Thomas said quickly, his tone gentle, not the harsh clipped voice of criticism.

 

John sighed and rubbed his eyes. “I saved up money these past three years, best I could. So I’ve got savings to hold me over.”

 

“Oh good. See James I wasn’t being rude, he’s a smart boy he’s prepared.”

 

But James was watching John fidget, instead of listening to Thomas.

 

“It’s not much is it?” he asked.  

 

“It’s enough.” John said with his con man smile. “I don’t live a very extravagant lifestyle so, aside from my metro pass and food, it should be more than enough to get me by.”

 

They didn’t seem convinced, but they dropped the subject, instead asking about John’s touristy plans while he visited the city. It was easier, to talk about nothing, than to admit his vulnerabilities in so domestic and welcoming a place. It made him want to tell the truth, and that terrified him. They didn’t need to know his entire existence fit in two large duffle bags and a ratty old backpack. They didn’t need to know how much of a void waited for him back in california if he failed. 

 

That was his story, to bury deep down and rest on until it killed him. 

 

After breakfast he thanked them again for their kindness and made up some story about needing to get home and help Max with chores, before they all went out to spend the night downtown. It was a lie, and part of John wondered if they knew it. 

 

But they let him go once they had each plugged their numbers into his phone.

 

“In case you need a tour guide,” Thomas said. “Or a breather from your roomates. That’s all.”

 

John looked up at him, skeptical. “I don’t need any more charity from you, really, it’s already been more than I can take.”

 

Thomas hummed, lips twisting into an almost smile. James had vanished into the house leaving Thomas so see him off. He reached out, fixing John’s collar again. 

 

“Charity, Mister Silver, is cutting a check to the boys and girls club.” Thomas said. “If you must put a name to this, to reassure your pride, you can call it a curiosity.”

 

“Curiosity?” John echoed.

 

“My husband took a shine to you, and that hasn’t happened in all the years we’ve been married. So yes, curiosity. And besides, we all need a little help now and then, don’t you think?” He asked, hand resting lightly on John’s shoulder.

 

John could only nod as he looked up at him.  

 

Thomas smiled, a genuine smile this time, and waved him off. “Be careful out there John. Hopefully we cross paths again soon.”

 

John felt the warmth of his hand all the way back to Weehawken, where he stripped off the clothes they had given him and finally looked at the labels. Each one was designer, names he didn’t know well but recognized from magazines. If pressed he could probably re-sell each piece for more than he made in a paycheck back home.

 

All John could do with that realization is lay down and take a very long nap, in hopes his head might clear by the time he woke up.

And it very nearly did. He made it through lunch time without freaking out over it. He made it through getting ready to go out, he made it through dinner, made it onto the subway, made it all the way downtown as the sun set without freaking out.

 

But at the club Jack dragged them all to, when he went to pull out his ID only to find it missing, he started freaking out all over again.

 

John didn’t drive, not after the accident, so he didn’t have a driver's license. He had a passport, one gotten years earlier when he’d gotten the crazy idea in his head of leaving for South America and never coming back. It never left his bag or his pocket, not unless he was getting into bed, at which point it sat on his dresser, or was tucked back into his bag with his wallet. 

 

“John it’s probably just somewhere in the apartment, relax,” Jack assured him. “It’ll be fine, we’ll find it. And if not, we can get you another one.”

 

Except he didn’t have a home address anymore, John wanted to argue. Without it he wasn’t sure they’d issue an ID of any kind, let alone another passport. But he didn’t argue, too exhausted by it all to bother. 

 

The bouncer was friends with Charles, so they were hustled inside without much more than a reminder to bring his id next time, and John did his best to let go of his panic for a while. It worked well enough, John collapsing on the futon that night without bothering to look for the damn passport. It was a problem for the morning Jack had said, and he listened.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wants to call it a coincidence, that he keeps stumbling back into the McGraws' lives. He wants to, because that means it's not the beginning of something as absurd as a friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nom Wah is a fantastic little dim sum cafe, please go if you're ever in China Town they're fantastic. As for the plot, I took a couple background characters and tried to breathe little more life into them (even tho Maple technically was fully developed).

Sunday morning came and John rolled off the futon, pulled on his pros, and set about making coffee. He was the only one who hadn’t ordered drinks the night before, which left him on hangover duty, ordering breakfast from the nearby bagel shop so they’d have all the greasy awful food they needed when they finally woke up.

The delivery was due by nine, so when John heard the buzzer in the kitchen, the one that signaled someone in the building’s foyer, he just hit the button without asking who it was. At the knock on the door he slipped off the couch, coffee in hand and his hair a rats nest, expecting a teenager with a greasy bag of food.

 

James stood on their step instead. “Morning gorgeous.”

 

“Uh,” John said.

 

James held out a blue passport, failing to hide his smile. “You left this at our place.”

 

“Oh- oh thank fuck, I couldn’t find it anywhere-”

 

“Didn’t find it until last night, otherwise I’d have brought it by sooner.” James said with a shrug. “Sorry, for not calling, I kind of assumed you’d still be asleep. I was going to shove it under the door.”

 

John smiled, stepping back to let him in. “Thank you. Had a fucking meltdown over this damn thing last night. You uh- you want any coffee?”

 

“I don’t wanna overstay my welcome. Especially since it seems I woke you-”

 

“No, no I was up already. I’m on hangover duty, had to order them all breakfast and get the coffee pot going-” the door buzzed again. “Ah that’s the food, hang on.”

 

John thanked the driver and tipped him, dropping the large greasy bag of food on the counter. “Sure you don’t want coffee?”

 

“If you insist.” James looked around the apartment, not moving far past the door.

 

John felt oddly insecure in the moment. “I know it’s not much, definitely doesn’t compare to your place but-”

 

“Reminds me of the flat I had in Camden.” James said. “Growing up at any rate.”

 

“Camden?”

 

“Neighborhood in London. Your sister did well, finding this place. It’s not easy round here, getting this much space. Even on this side of the river.” James took the chipped coffee mug with a nod of thanks. John caught himself staring at the swallow on his hand, the crown in his finger.

 

“I- I appreciate it, you coming out here. Though I do feel bad,” John said.

 

“Don’t. I’m off on Sundays. Didn’t have anything planned.”

 

“What not even something gross and domestic with Thomas?” John teased.

 

James shrugged and John saw the tips of his ears start to turn red. “Nah. He got called into work today.”

 

“On a sunday? Jesus that’s not fair.” John made a face in sympathy.

 

“It’s what he gets for being the boss I guess.” James said. “So don’t worry, this wasn’t really out of the way. All I had planned was taking Ody to the park in a bit, running some errands.”

 

“Dog park?” John asked.

 

“Central Park, the one right across the street from our place? The one you almost wandered into yesterday?”

 

John felt his cheeks heat. “Oh, right, obviously. I forget you all have this giant park just sitting in the middle of all this bullsit.”

 

“It’s pretty nice, having it there. But yes, it is an oddity.”

 

“I’ve never been.”

 

There was a beat of silence between them, each of them staring at their coffee.

 

“Want to tag along?” James asked, after clearing his throat. “It’s… easier to navigate with someone who’s familiar with it.”

 

John looked up in surprise and James quickly back tracked.

 

“I mean I’m sure you’re busy so I get not wanting to I just, I thought I’d offer-”

 

“I don’t have any plans.” John said softly, cutting him off.  


“No?” And John almost thought James sounded hopeful, of all the absurd things for him to think.

  
“Not for today. All the studios are closed so,” John shrugged. “I’ve got nowhere to be.”

 

James watched him for a moment, rocking back and forth from one foot to the other. “I- I know we don’t really know each other and that we already spent more time together than you probably like but-”

 

“But you wanna show me round central park, huh?” John asked, leaning back against the counter with a teasing smile, expecting James to back down.

 

He didn’t.

 

“I do. I wanna see if your skinny ass can keep up with Ody and I,” James replied with that shark-like grin. “It is a rather extensive park after all.”

 

John’s eyes dropped to that smile for one perilous moment, before darting back up to James’ eyes. “Uh- give me fifteen minutes to get dressed?”

 

“Sounds fair.”

 

John rushed to the den to grab his clothes, trying to decide if he had time for a quick shower. He decided to risk it, not wanting to smell like the sugary cocktails that had been spilled on him the night before. When stepped out of the shower five minutes later he could hear Jack grumbling and moving about, heading for the kitchen, where James stood waiting.

 

“Oh-” he heard Jack say. “Morning, McGraw.”

 

“Morning Jack.” He heard James reply and John scrambled into his clothes as fast as he could. “You look like shit.”

 

“Make up team hasn’t arrived.” Jack mumbled, grabbing a cup of coffee for himself and for Anne, before turning back to the bedrooms.

 

John stepped out of the bathroom as Jack reached it and he watched as the realization of who was standing in their living room at nine am on a Sunday finally registered.

 

“John- John, McGraw is in our-”

 

“I know.”

 

“What the _fuck_ -”

 

“He brought me my passport,” John explained, as Jack started to panic. “He was just dropping it off.”

 

“Then why is he still here?” Jack replied in a high pitched whisper.

 

“He offered to show me around the city some.”

 

And somehow that seemed to throw Jack for even more of a loop than the fact that Jame was in their apartment at all. “He _what_?”

 

“You heard me now move, I have to finish getting dressed.” John snapped, pulling his hair up into a bun. Jack poked his head back around the corner as if to check and make sure he had in fact seen James. Apparently a hallucination made more sense.

 

“Oh my god I’m never going to be able to face him or his husband again.” Jack lamented.

 

“Why not?”

 

“Look at me!”

 

John rolled his eyes and pulled on his boots. Jack looked hungover, shadows of eyeliner under his eyes, his previously slicked back hair sticking up in all directions, and John was pretty sure all he was wearing was one of Charles’ t-shirts and a pair of boxers, which John had to admit, was an improvement from how he normally slept.

 

“He doesn’t give a shit Jack, jesus.”

 

“Wait- why the fuck is he showing you around the city?” Jack demanded. “You said- you said nothing happened-”

 

“Nothing happened! I told you I wasn’t gonna whore myself out at a party, all I did was crash there the way you used to at Auggie and Idelle’s place before they got married,” John snapped.

 

“Then why the fuck is he-”

 

“I don’t know,” John hissed. “I don’t know okay? But he’s here, and he offered, and I have literally no reason to say no-”

 

“Uhm, other than he’s a rich fuck you didn’t know existed until two days ago?”

 

“He’s- alright he’s a rich fuck but he’s not a terrible guy and I’m not gonna have time to see the city once I start meeting with the directors again if all goes well so, what’s the harm in it? Besides, this way you three can spend the day fucking without the risk of being interrupted.”

 

“I am insulted that you think that’s all we do.” Jack replied dryly, looking back out at the living room. “And you swear nothing-”

 

“Oh for the love of- nothing happened.” John said again. “Nothing. I will tell you the whole damn story about friday night and yesterday morning when I get back but right now I have to go.”

 

“I am holding you to that John.” Jack said as he stormed past, backpack slung over his shoulder.

 

James raised an eyebrow at John’s flustered expression. “Everything good?”

 

“Yeah, yeah- sorry for keeping you waiting-” John managed a smile and took James’ empty coffee cup, scribbling a note on the bag of food for the others. “Alright, they can sort themselves out later.”

 

“Didn’t take you for the mother hen type,” James mused, watching him grab his phone and keys.

 

“I’m not. I’m just the sober friend this time,” John replied. “Come on, before Jack wakes up enough to start schmoozing-”

 

James lead the way outside, John locking the door behind them and texting Anne about breakfast just for good measure. When he reached the street he stopped and stared.

 

“What?" James asked.

 

“Uhm- not to sound like a wuss-” John began, but James’ sharp smile cut him off.

 

“It’s a motorcycle not a bear. Relax.”

 

The old gnarled fear that showed itself whenever John was put behind the wheel of a car was clawing its way up his throat as he tried to find a way to explain. “I’ve- I’ve never ridden.”

 

“The fear on your face gave it away.” James replied gently, popping open the two saddle bags to pull out the helmets and a spare jacket. “It’s a short ride.”

 

“I know.”

 

“If you want you can take a cab and follow me back?” James offered.

 

“That sounds impractical-”

 

“So does you having a fit on the back of the bike when we hit the tunnel. I won’t take offense if you say no John. I honestly didn’t plan on company, otherwise I’d have brought the car.”

 

John sighed and stepped closer, running a hand over the leather of the seat. It was a gorgeous bike, the kind he used to see in the old McQueen movies and at car shows in LA- Black and chrome finished with a touch of rich cherry red on the gas tank.  He’d always been curious about them, what it felt like to ride. But since the accident he’d steered away from the risks it presented.

 

James watched him, waiting patiently.

 

“How about we do a short ride round the neighborhood? Before you decide,” he offered.

 

John looked up at him, then at the jacket in his hand.

 

“You trust me?” James asked, his tone almost teasing.

 

John really didn’t want to answer that. He nodded, taking the jacket and letting James tuck his bag into the case. He was glad he’d decided to wear jeans and his boots. At least, John thought morbidly, he had one less limb to lose if things went wrong.

 

“Here,” James offered his arm to help him up, before sliding onto the seat in front of him. “There’s a rail on the seat next to you, to hold onto,” he added, as John undid his hair to pull on the helmet.

 

He waited until John tapped his shoulder before starting the bike and slowly pulling them out onto the street.

John kept a white knuckle grip on the rail for the first five minutes of the ride, as James took them around the neighborhood rather aimlessly. He could feel the engine like thunder along his nerves, kicking up his pulse with a new wave of adrenaline, one that ever so slowly overwhelmed his fear. He was glad that James didn’t shrug him off the time or two they made a sharp turn and on instinct John grabbed hold of him instead of the rail.

After about half an hour, James pulled them up outside a cafe, parking the bike and pulling off his helmet.

 

He glanced back at John. “Oh good you didn’t fall off.”

 

“Ha fucking ha-” John rolled his eyes, pulling off his own helmet as James laughed at him. “Hilarious. A goddamn comedian.”

 

James took the helmet and offered his hand to help him off the bike. “Not too bad?”

 

“No- no actually I can see why people like it.” John flexed his hand when James let go, the warmth lingering. “Probably helps you know what you’re doing.”

 

“I’ve been riding since I was thirteen.”

 

“Oh so that’s like five decades worth of practice.”

 

“Really? Old jokes?”

 

John just grinned at him and James rolled his eyes.

 

They grabbed breakfast inside, James’ treating since John’s wallet was still locked in the bike. He told John about the old bikes in his neighborhood growing up, how he’d bribed the older kids to teach him how to ride instead of going to school. About how he’d not been able to get his own until after the navy, how it had been almost as much of a goal as getting his degree.

 

“That’s not weird,” John said as James paid. “I knew a few people back west who put everything into their cars, especially the vintage ones.”

 

“My granddad had a vintange triumph. I loved that bike, wasn’t allowed to touch it though. Nearly bought one but- dunno I guess I didn’t want to have to keep fixing it up all the time.”

 

“As your husband would say, reasonable.” John said in a terrible impression of Thomas’ voice that made James snort. “He’s not opposed to you riding?”

 

“It made him nervous in the beginning but after a few rides he started to relax. Besides he can’t really judge.”

 

“No?”

 

“No. He wanted to go to the Monaco Grand Prix for our honeymoon,” James said dryly. “So he can’t give me any shit at all.”

 

“Does he realize he’s kind of a walking stereotype sometimes? And I mean that with all the respect in my heart-”

 

“He does. Luckily he is entirely self aware which means I can ridicule him as much as I want.”

 

“Well isn’t that the key to a happy marriage?”

 

“Hell if I know. We’re making it up as we go.” James leaned against the bike when they stepped outside. “So, wanna ride into the city? Or take a cab?”

 

He made one hell of a picture, John thought, taking in the view. James leaned against the bike, helmet in his lap, his copper hair loose and windblown around his face. The summer must have brought out his freckles, they covered his face and hands like stars, the well loved leather jacket slimming his broad shoulders and stocky build. His white t-shirt showed just enough of his chest piece to make John want to stare.

John briefly lamented the fact he was married.

And then immediately kicked himself.

 

“If you promise not to lose me, I’ll ride back with you.”

 

James crossed his finger in an X over his heart with only a touch of mockery. “I promise.”

 

So John let himself climb back onto the bike and slip the helmet on his head. It lurched a little when James pulled them into traffic, John’s arms grabbing him around the middle in a moment of panic, the fear and bile rising in his throat again.

 

He tried to tell himself to pull away, to grab the rail like he had before, telling himself that James would make sure they got back to midtown in one piece. But just as he found the last bit of will power to let go, taking slow breaths as they stopped at a red light, James’ gloved hand came to rest on his forearm, giving it a gentle squeeze of reassurance. Before John could let go, they were making for the tunnel and crossing into Manhattan, going a bit too fast for John to feel confident enough letting go and grabbing the rails. He kept his head down, holding tight to James as they moved through traffic, until rolling to a stop at another light.

 

James tapped his arm and John looked up, only to be greeted by the dazzling electric chaos that was Times Square, the lights and vivid screens reflecting on the glass of his helmet in an endless kaleidoscope. It wasn’t as breathtaking as it was at night, or at least from what John remembered, but still, it was a lot to take in.

 

James squeezed his arm again as the light changed, a reminder to hold on tight, and they were off again. The city sped past, the buildings blending into each other as they turned north along the west side. They passed through the theater district, and up through columbus circle, the endless expanse of Central park creeping up amongst the concrete and metal.

At 81st street, James’ turned into the park, the vivid colors of autumn a canopy over them as the traffic gave way to only a few cars and dozens of pedestrians. John held on tight, his head tipped up as he watched the trees pass over head. Back home he rarely saw the true shades of the season. He could smell the rich earth and the crisp leaves, the faint whiff of roasting nuts as they passed the main concourse of the park.

 

Then the park around them vanished, as James pulled out onto fifth avenue, taking them past the museum he called home with its grand stairs and towering columns. It, and the buildings across the street, looked truly like they belonged in another era, the classical architecture the sort of thing John had never seen back home.

A few short blocks later and one last right turn, and John looked up to see the familiar brownstone waiting for them.

 

Only then did he let go of James, who said nothing about it, as he helped John off the bike and rolled it onto the sidewalk, so he could tuck it away behind their front stairs.

 

He tossed John his bag and waved him inside. “Give me five minutes to get Ody leashed and then we can go.”

 

“No rush,” John said, lingering in the foyer as James headed upstairs. He smiled at the happy barking from the dog, and the cooing reply from James.

 

Without all the chaos of a party, the house actually felt smaller, cozier, lived in. Even with the classical decor it felt like a home instead of just a display piece- Thomas’ jacket hung on the banister, a few pairs of shoes sat by the door, cat toys were scattered here and there across the polished hardwood.

But before John could let himself imagine what it was like, to have such a home himself, Ody came barreling down the stairs in excitement, barking until John crouched down to say hello. James followed, watching as John struggled to avoid the sloppy kisses, before grabbing the leash and whistling for Ody, who sat at his feet in an instant.

 

“You’ll have to forgive him, he doesn’t often get company on his walks,” James said, holding the door for john as they ventured back out into the autumn air.

 

“It’s alright, he’s sweet.” John scratched behind the dog’s ears as he pressed up against him. “I’m sure you don’t get many door to door salesmen with him around.”

 

“Nope. But he’s a fairly harmless ball of fur.” James kept the leash slack in his hand, Ody staying just a foot ahead of them as they made their way to the park across the street.

 

They headed south, after a lap of the reservoir, James wanting to show him the boat house, though it was closed for the season, and the sculptures that lined the main concourse. John followed, snapping a photo here and there like a true tourist. He was glad James didn’t give him shit for it. Though really he couldn’t when every dozen yards they found some instagram or youtube sensation posing with a hired photographer. At least that was familiar to John, his time in LA making the so called influencers a common sight.

The park was, as all the snidbits of media and photos online had said, beautiful, a haven amongst the endless whirl of the city. The vivid colors of autumn turned it into a postcard around them as they circled west to the castle on the pond, and back down past the museum. Around them, amongst the tourists, John could see New Yorkers enjoying a slice of peace, picnics with their friends before the weather grew cold, parents with their kids teaching them to catch a baseball. It reminded him of the beach back home.

 

An hour or two in, and again John found himself losing track of time, he stopped in the middle of the bridge they were crossing. They’d mostly talked about nothing, casually carrying on their debates from friday night, though sticking mostly to movies this time, and John was struck by a sudden realization.

 

“What?” James asked looking back at him when he realized he’d stopped.

 

“You conned me.”

 

James looked affronted. “I what?”

 

“You said you’d tell me why you went into art, and then you just kept dragging me into conversations about theater to avoid it!” John said, thinking back to their conversations at the party. “You conned me!”

 

No one conned him. No one, not except his sister but then they never conned each other that was the rule. He had, in letting his guard down that night in the face of stimulating intelligent conversation, let himself be played just as he played every other guest at the party. And what’s worse, he hadn’t even noticed he’d been tricked into showing his hand, even if it had only been a momentary peek.

 

James stared at him for a long moment, slack jawed, before throwing his head back with a sharp laugh. “It took you this long to figure it out? Damn kid and here I thought you were clever.”

 

He laughed, his whole body shaking with it, head tipped back and John was left reeling. The short chuckles and snorts of laughter before had been private little victories but this-

 

John felt weightless, watching him, as the sound drew him in like a welcoming hand. Weightless and wanting, the desire to be the source of that sound again and again quickly replacing the upset at being so easily played. Later, John would realize that had been the tipping point, the moment of his undoing and would grieve for how easily James seemed to worm through his defenses.

 

But in the moment, John felt nearly whole.

 

James wiped his eyes as he caught his breath, still letting out wheezy little giggles. “God the look on your face-”

 

“Well can you blame me?” John asked, trying for indignant, which was hard with Ody trying to wind his leash around his feet.

 

It tempered James, the irritated look on John’s face, but he was still smiling. It wasn’t the shark toothed smile he’d give him at the party. It was small, the slightest twist of the corner of his mouth, framed by his mustache- a genuine little smile for John only.

 

“No. No I suppose I can’t.” James said. “Look you just- you care about what you do, a lot, I could see it. And even if you bullshitted half your answers when the questions were almost personal, your investment is more than clear.”

 

So he had caught on to John’s deflections. It made John shift on his feet, instinctively wary.

 

“And I… Don’t often find anyone worth having a conversation with,” James continued. “Especially not at those fucking parties. All anyone ever wants to talk about is how they’re better than everyone else and how they know what’s best and what they’re doing in their own line of work. No one really gives a fuck about what you have to say. And those that do usually have an agenda of their own. Not that I fault them for it, but I have no interest in being anyone’s fucking ladder to the stars.”

 

“And how do you know I’m not like that? You said it yourself, I was working so hard to be liked, schmoozing all night-”

 

“Because if all you want is the life of the rich and famous, you don’t get into arguments about how what you do isn’t accessible to those who deserve it most,” James said, and the smile was gone, replaced with a soft, severe tone and a look in his eye that made John feel transparent. But he couldn’t step back as James closed the distance between them, held in place by the eerie green of his eyes.

 

“You don’t put everything on the line to defend a bunch of kids from the inner city who want to get into theater but can’t.” James watched him carefully. “You don’t support bootlegs of expensive broadway shows, you don’t encourage free summer programs for the arts. You don’t think about anyone but yourself.”

 

“I’m- I’m no different than Rackham-” John argued.

 

“No, you’re not. Because Rackham is the same way. The first interview he and I did together? Took three fucking hours because he went completely off topic to discuss what the museum was planning to do about the stolen art work we had in our galleries,” James said. “He was supposed to be asking about restoring a damaged picasso painting.”

 

John huffed a weak laugh at that.

 

“And before you bring up your sister, that girl works harder than anyone I know. She does ten live art studio sessions a week at minimum before bartending because she loves what she does, not because it pays enough for her to quit her second job.” James says before John can speak.

 

“So you’re saying you tricked me into telling you about myself because I wasn’t the kind of wanna be IT boy you see all the time?” John asked.

 

James shrugged. “Something like that. Though to be fair, you fed me mostly bullshit.”

 

“I did yeah.” John shrugged. “Like you said, no one ever seems to give a shit. And we’d only just met so- telling you the whole truth seemed a bit-”

 

“Naive?” James offered.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“It would have been.”

 

John nodded, running a hand through his hair. “So. I tried to con you, you tried to con me. And here we are-”

 

“A pair of bitter fucks circling each other like feral cats,” James supplied and John laughed, feeling lighter already.

 

“So you offered to show me the city because you enjoyed my company?” He asked, as they slowly began to make their way again.

 

“I wouldn’t make it that sappy. I enjoyed the conversation.” James corrected. “As for you, well, that’s up for debate.”

 

It was cutting, but no more so than the lightest paper cut, teasing him with the edge the words carried. It made him smile, shoving james’ shoulder gently.

 

“Well I am a con man so, the mistrust is warranted I guess.” He said. “But next time we do that, next time you and I agree to answer each other plainly-”

 

“Next time?” James echoed, his tone vaguely surprised. “You think there’ll be a next time?”

 

“I do. I’m a very likable person after all. Very genuine, I’ve been told.”

 

James snorted. “That is not what I said-”

 

“I paraphrased, you rambled. Tomato, Tomahto-”

 

“I take it back, you’re fucking insufferable that’s what you are-”

 

It was surprisingly easy, falling back into their sharp banter as they passed the boat house. And while John hadn’t quite gotten over the fact that his defenses had failed him so completely, he was happily swept back into the clever conversation he enjoyed sharing with James as if nothing had derailed it in the first place.

 

Whether or not the image of James’ laughter was burned into his memory was a new secret to add to his collection.

They made their way further south, Ody content to run through the various piles of leaves. When the reached the statues James stepped back and let John see them each properly, and snap a few photos while he saw to Ody and got him some water from the guy selling roasted chestnuts. He didn’t notice the way John’s phone occasionally turned his way, catching a picture or two of the way he played with Ody.

It was around four when they returned to the brownstone, Ody trotting off to nap up stairs as James invited John up to the kitchen for a drink. John was happy to follow, the park was, as James told him, a rather extensive way to spend the afternoon. He was fairly sure he’d be sore by the end of the day, and could already feel the ache in his knee from the prosthetic.

 

“Technically you did keep up with us so, I suppose that’s earned you a drink,” James said as John shrugged off his bag and kicked off his shoes.

 

“It wasn’t so bad, it’s paved at least.”

 

“The parts in the south are. There’s a few sections on the north end that aren’t, they’re straight up dirt trails.” James replied. “I felt a warning would be best before we attempted that.”

 

John rolled his eyes and dropped into a bar seat at the kitchen island. “Gosh you’re so considerate.”

 

“Thank you for noticing.” James, to John’s surprise, grabbed a bottle from the fridge instead of the bar cart, before glancing his way. “What?”

 

“When you said drink I figured you meant something stronger.”

 

“If you want something stronger there’s four bar carts in total to choose from.”

 

“No- no that wasn’t- I was just surprised I guess” John shrugged and rested his chin on his hands. “You strike me as a scotch kinda guy.”

 

James smiled faintly. “I am technically but I don’t drink all that much these days. One or two at a party, maybe a glass of wine if I eat out. It just… My head’s fucked enough as it is, ya know?”

 

“I do, yeah. The bar carts thomas’ idea then?”

 

“The carts make it easy to entertain his guests, you buy in bulk and let em sit a while till they’re needed.” James set a glass of juice in front of John, startling as his phone began to ring in his pocket. “Speak of the devil-”

 

“Oh, I can go-”

 

James waved for him to stay and answered the call on speaker phone. “Hi babe-”

 

“Please tell me you aren’t neck deep in work please James tell me we can go to dinner because I am this close so help me-” Thomas’ voice was shrill and tight, his tone hushed which clearly meant his was still at his office. “If one more of these fucks so much as looks at me funny I’m gonna-”

 

“Breathe, babe, breathe. How long till you’re done?”

 

“Twenty minutes unless Dr. Kidney Stones starts fucking talking again-”

 

John snorted at that, covering his mouth to try and stifle the sound.

 

It failed.

 

“What was- who is that? James are you being social without me?” Thomas asked, incredulous.

 

John winced as James waved for him to speak up. “Uh- Hi Thomas?”

 

“John!” Thomas’ voice shifted in an instant, from shrill and tense to warm and melodic. “Oh hello darling I take it James got you your passport?”

 

“He did yeah.”

 

“I thought you were stopping by on your morning ride, James?”

 

“I did.” James replied.

 

A pause. “James it’s four thirty.”

 

“Well, John mentioned having never seen Central Park so I thought why not bring him long on Ody’s walk.”

 

John laughed softly at the excited sound Thomas made, followed by what had to be him trying to pack his bag.

 

“That’s a wonderful idea! I hope you enjoyed yourself John, that James wasn’t too insufferable.”

 

“Nah, just a little.”

 

“What did you have in mind for dinner?” James asked, rolling his eyes at John’s smile.

 

“We haven’t been to Nom Wah in months, love-”

 

“Chinatown?” James asked.

 

“Oh of course, that location is their best.”

 

John thought about grabbing his bag and heading back across town, not wanting to be a burden on their night together. He felt torn between the two sides of the glass, halfway through the door and not sure if he was welcome at all.

 

“John? How about it?” Thomas asked, and even James seemed mildly surprised.

 

“What?”

 

“How about dinner?” Thomas repeated. “Are you busy tonight?”

 

“Uh,” John glanced from the phone in James’ hand to his face and back, trying to discern how he felt about the idea, of John crashing their dinner. James’ expression was neutral, boarding on thoughtful, and absolutely no help.

 

“no I don’t think so.” John said at last.

 

“Wonderful, would you like to join us? I want to hear all about your first days in the city.”

 

John doubted that, truly doubted that. Thomas likely just wanted an entertaining distraction.

 

“Are you sure three isn’t a crowd?” he asked.

 

“Darling, James and I have been married nearly a decade,” Thomas drawled. “We almost need a crowd these days. Besides, James got to spend the whole day with you and I was stuck in a goddamn medical lawsuit. How is that fair?”

 

James rolled his eyes.

 

“I’ll come.” John said with a shrug. “I think Jack and the others want some privacy anyway so, I’m not needed anywhere-”

 

“Excellent! Then I’ll reserve a table for us and I should be home in about twenty minutes if I can avoid my client-”

 

“Don’t kill anyone,” James reminded him.

 

“I make no such promises. See you both when I get home.”

 

John wasn’t sure why being included in the statement made his chest ache with warmth, but it did, as he watched James take the phone off speaker and turn away, to say goodbye to his husband properly. Maybe it was just another emotional fluke, John had those sometimes. So he added it to the way James’ laughter made him feel weightless, and the way Thomas’ hand on his shoulder grounded him, and shoved as far back in his mind as it would possibly go. Those kind of thoughts were reserved for the middle of the night when insomnia took over.

 

“Your husband is goddamn relentless you know that right?” John asked when James hung up the phone. “I mean christ.”

 

“How do you think I got conned into dating him in the first place?”

 

“You’re obviously an idiot.”

 

“Obviously.” James fidgeted with his wedding ring as he replied, cursing softly when his phone started to ring again. “Sorry, it’s work, I’ll be back in a minute-”

 

John waved him away and watched him slip out onto the balcony to answer the call. Whether his gaze lingered longer than it should have was between John and Marlowe, who sat on the barstool next to him and thankfully judged him in silence.

 

His phone chimed about ten minutes in, forcing his attention from the way James slowly paced back and forth and back and forth.

 

 _Where are you?_ It was Jack.

 

**Upper east side why?**

 

_UES? Still??_

 

**Yes still. Why?**

 

_Dinner. Chaz is cooking._

 

**Rain check, tell him thanks tho.**

 

_John you don’t have any other friends who are you rain checking us for?_

 

Before John could explain Jack seemed to put the pieces together on his own, as John watched his screen flicker from the chat to jack’s incoming call.

 

“What-”

 

“You’re still with McGraw? Seriously?” Jack asked, incredulous.

 

“Yes jesus christ why is this a big deal?”

 

“Because it’s McGraw!”

 

“It was a chance so see the city will you just fuck off? I don’t see you giving Max this kind of grief.”

 

“You’re having dinner with him? And no of course I’m not giving your sister shit, I intend to keep my dick attached to my body thank you-”

 

“I am having dinner with _Them,_ Jack,” John corrected. “Thomas invited me to some place in Chinatown and-”

 

“Wait. wait wait wait-” Jack cut him off and John sighed. “Back up. Them? As in _both of them_?”

 

“No I mean James and his imaginary friend-” John looked up as he heard a car pull up outside. “Jack- Jack I have to go-”

 

“No you don’t, don’t you dare hang up on me-” Jack snapped

 

“I will tell you everything when I get back tonight.” John said before promptly hanging up the phone.

 

Seconds later he heard the front door open and Thomas’ voice carrying up the stairs. “I’m home!”

 

“Uh- upstairs?” John tucked his phone back into his pocket, silencing it for good measure, as Marlowe raced out of the kitchen with a yowl.

 

Thomas appeared a moment later, briefcase and blazer on one arm and Marlowe cradled in the other, covering his pristine violet button down with a layer of white fur. He looked exhausted, the faintest shadows under his eyes, hair a mess of blonde from his fingers toying with it nervously all day. But he was smiling at John as if he was genuinely glad to see him.

 

“Not to be rude-” John said

 

“But I look like shit, I know. Believe me I feel like it too.” Thomas agreed, setting his things down on the kitchen island and placing marlowe back on the stool next to john. As he passed he gave John’s shoulder a squeeze. “Medical lawsuit I’m afraid. They’re never simple.”

 

“I’ll take your word for it.”

 

Thomas stretched as he headed to the balcony to kiss James hello, John watching out of the corner of his eye as he did. He expected them to linger together, the way Anne and Max did, but Thomas merely kissed him quickly on the cheek and let James return to his phone call, stepping back inside and heading for the bar cart they kept by the breakfast table.

 

“So you spent the day in the park?” he asked, mixing a drink with practiced ease.

 

“Yeah, I’d never been, James offered. It’s a lot more extensive than I expected.”

 

“Oh it’s wonderful isn’t it? Especially this time a year. The autumn and the spring are the best views, the trees are at their best then, all vibrant and welcoming. Winter too, but only if it’s snowed. Otherwise it’s a tad dreary." Thomas leaned against the counter with a sigh, rolling his neck. “I don’t spend as much time there these days, it’s unfortunate.”

 

“Even if it’s right outside your front door?” John asked. When he’d lived by the beach he’d spent every spare moment there he could.

 

Thomas shrugged, running a hand over his hair. “Things have been rather hectic at the firm as of late, and after a while you fall into a routine. It’s awful of me I know.”

 

“What is it exactly you do? I know you said lawsuit, and Jack mentioned you were a lawyer-”

 

“I am yes, for Hamilton and Barlow. Mostly corporate accounts but we do our best to have a long list of pro-bono work on hand at all times.”

 

“I take it you’re rather important if they’re calling you in on a sunday,” John mused.

 

“I’m name partner,” Thomas said with a shrug. “Really I shouldn’t be handling cases personally but I hate not being involved.”

 

“Name partner?”

 

“Hamilton. My maiden name, if you want to be technical about it,” Thomas said with a teasing smile.

 

“Why didn’t you just keep your name, if it’s- I mean you’ve got-”

 

“A company? That’s part of why actually. Not the only reason but- Business is one thing, personal life is another.” Thomas sipped his drink. “I took over the firm from its previous owners and turned it into a successful enterprise with a reputation of reliability and integrity. At the time however I wasn’t… well I was open about my sexuality, but no one really took me seriously regarding it. So, when it came down to it, I decided I was going to take my husband’s name because my life, my identity isn’t tied to the firm.”

 

“So you kept it Hamilton for reputation sake?”

 

“Changing it would have meant a lot of paperwork,” Thomas said, and grimaced at the thought. “I still carry it as my second middle name. And I do so enjoy the look of horror I get when people realize they’re talking to the man in charge after insulting me.”

 

John hummed in agreement as Thomas flashed a sharp, mischievous smile at him. “I’ve never known how that feels but it does sound satisfying.”

 

“You will. One day you will.”

 

“Nah, I’m- not the type to end up in charge of anything.” John replied, deflecting in the face of the unnerving certainty in Thomas’ tone.

 

“Well not with that attitude, heavens.” Thomas scoffed. “We are going to have to work on your confidence my dear.”

 

“It’s unsalvageable trust me-”

 

“What is? Thomas’ dignity?” James asked, rejoining them at last.

 

Thomas finished his drink and stuck his tongue out at him. “Speak for yourself, sir.”

 

“What time is dinner?” James asked, and John was oddly fascinated with the sudden softness in him, as he stood within Thomas’ reach, watching him with those piercing eyes.

Like the night they had met, when Thomas found them after the party and James’ snarking demeanor had faded away with the mere touch of his husband’s hand, in an instant he seemed a different person. The military posture he seemed to instinctually carry shifted into sloping shoulders, the everpresent furrow in his brow gone as Thomas reached over to tuck a piece of copper hair behind his ear. John was fascinated by it, wanted to write it down on paper so he could relive it again and again.

 

Thomas’ voice roused him from the stage directions and lighting cues that began to filter though his mind as he watched them.

 

“The reservation is for seven. I just want to change and then we can take the train down.” he said. “You both okay if we leave in about fifteen minutes or so?”

 

John nodded. “Whatever works. I’m at your disposal it seems.”

 

It made Thomas laugh, patting John’s shoulder as he passed. “Oh dear, now there’s an idea. Be back in a moment.”

 

He left the two of them alone again and John tried not to notice the way James’ ears were tipped with pink. It was a short wait though, Thomas reappearing sooner than expected in fresh jeans and a fitted shirt and looking almost restored.

 

“Right then,” He said, grabbing a bomber jacket from the hall closet. “Shall we?”

 

John followed dutifully, ignoring the way his phone buzzed every few minutes, as James and Thomas lead the way to the nearest subway station. They caught the next downtown bound 6 train, Thomas telling them loosely about his day and the mess that had become of his client’s lawsuit- something about an ambulance chaser and a fraudulent case.

He was lively when he spoke, telling the story as if he were giving them a private monologue. John enjoyed watching him, enjoyed watching the way he talked with his hands, listening to the way his voice fluctuated with his emotions, or as he imitated another person. He found himself wondering what he’d look like on a small stage, or a black box floor, how he might deliver a story told time and again in a new light.

John knew he shouldn’t wonder, knew it was a waste of time and energy, to let his thoughts carry on with _what ifs_ and _how abouts_ involving the two of them. He’d never see Thomas in a theater, or even in the audience, he’d never get to hear James recite Sassoon’s poetry or watch the way the soft gold light of a stage lit up his hair.

He’d been caught up in such daydreams before, back in California, with a girl who could have dimmed the very moon with her smile. He should have learned from that, thought he had, but there he was, on a downtown train, watching Thomas with rapt attention as he explained the history of the little restaurant they were visiting that night.

 

“John?”

 

He blinked and with a rush of sound- the screech of the train on the tracks as it turned a corner, the rattling of the cars, the faint music of a phone at the other end of the car- his thoughts were silenced, leaving him blinking at Thomas and James, who watched him with matching amused expressions.

 

“Back with us dear?” Thomas asked and John felt his cheeks burn.

 

“Yeah sorry. Haven’t- been on a subway in a while that’s all.” he lied and he could tell neither of them bought it.

 

But they didn’t call him out on it.

 

“I’m sure good dim sum isn’t hard to find in California?” Thomas asked, repeating his unheard question.

 

“Probably not, if you live in the right spots. I know San Francisco and LA have great Chinese and Japanese food scenes. Santa Cruz had a few good spots too.”

 

“Maybe one day we find ourselves out there, and you can show us around to your favorite spots,” Thomas suggested and John bit back the bile the rose up at the idea. Something about the two of them visiting him back in California after all this ended, however unlikely it was, felt like salt in the wound of failure.

 

“Maybe yeah. You seem more the LA type though,” he replied, his voice carefully schooled.

 

“Oh absolutely not, I can’t stand the damn city-”

 

James snorted as the train skidded to a halt. “He went for a business trip once or twice. Longest damn weeks of my life, all he did was bitch.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really. It was constant.”

 

Thomas made a sound of disgust as they hopped off the train and made for the stairs. “It’s unbearable. The only good bit is the beach and even that’s not worth the bullshit of the city.”

 

“I mean, I agree with you but still. I figured the lifestyle might be easy for you to adjust to. What with-”

 

“God don’t you dare say 90210 or I’m leaving you downtown after dinner-”

 

John laughed. “Fine, fine.”

 

What he had meant to say, needling and teasing Thomas for his disdain of LA, was interrupted by the sudden return of the surface, traffic trudging past as they blended into the crowd on Canal Street. Thomas lead the way, James a step behind John to keep him safely between them as they made their way East through Chinatown.

Around them, as the sunset, John watched as the neon lights slowly came to life, lanterns strung over alleys flickering on, fairy lights around windows on their little timers clicking on in a cheery hello. Even on Sunday the sidewalks were bustling and busy, the street market of the day closing up as the Vendors packed their leftover food and goods, a few holding out for last minute sales.

Down the side streets John could see other store fronts opening up, the smell of spices and rich food wafting out of windows, shopkeepers putting out more merchandise as the evening wave of tourists began to appear. It was fascinating to him, the creature the city was, the way it shed its skin at different hours of the day to become something else entirely, it’s inhabitants changing with it.

 

The tea parlor greeted them with a bright yellow storefront, a vintage sign in the window, the door open into the fall air letting the smell of food and the cheerful sound of voices and dishes and music dancing out onto the street. They were shown a cozy round table in the corner, close to the kitchens, and John was nestled between the two McGraws as they settled in. It felt family run, small and out of the way, the kind of place you didn’t find because it was listed in Forbes or The New Yorker, but by word of mouth from friends. John vaguely remembered Thomas explaining how the founder’s great grandson had just taken ownership and breathed new life back into the old place.

 

Thomas ordered a bottle of wine along with their waters and passed John the paper on which he was to mark his order. It had been a long while since John had visited a dim sum parlor, not since Max had last visited him back home, easily three years or more. So he left James and Thomas order for him, only making the tea order on his own.

 

“Now.” Thomas said, as their order was taken and the wine poured. “I want to hear all about your first week in New York.”

 

John gave him a look over the rim of his wine glass and James snorted.

 

“What?” Thomas asked.

 

“You can’t be serious.” John said flatly.

 

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

 

“Because of all the things to talk about that seems the least interesting and least relevant to you?” John replied, aware of James watching the two of them with what could only be amusement.

 

“Well to be frank ninety percent of the conversations I have daily aren’t relevant but I find this particular one falling into that last ten percent. And,” Thomas added, sipping his own wine as he sat back in his chair. “It isn’t often we get to have a new comer in our midst, seeing our city with fresh eyes. It’s a perspective we don’t often see.”

 

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on his folded hands, and John was reminded of a cat watching a mouse. “So, my dear Mister Silver, humor me why don’t you.”

 

John held his gaze for a moment, then for another, and sighed. “You’re a persistent sonnova bitch you know that? I don’t know how your husband puts up with you.”

 

Thomas smiled as if he’d won an argument. “Neither do I.”

 

John sat back and, between small sips of wine, told them about the forty hour bus trip from California, the early arrival Tuesday morning. How he’d spent all day in bed recovering from the lack of sleep.

Wednesday had been spent in groggy recovery, sitting at home while Max and the others were at work, venturing out only to grab food at the corner bodega before crawling back into bed.

On Thursday Max had finished her modelling session early and wasn’t needed at the Bar, so the two of them took the train all the way east to Coney Island, so they could just sit on the beach like old days and get lost in their words. Jack and Anne had joined them around sunset, bringing a six pack of beer and they shared crappy boardwalk food from the only two stalls still open in the off season, before heading back west to Weehawken.

 

To John, telling them about it felt ridiculous, a clear cut example of how he just didn’t fit in the natural flow of the city. It was putting his failures, his two days spent in six different auditions and two portfolio reviews that amounted to exactly nothing, on display for almost strangers, waiting for the cutting judgement that always followed a failed attempt at progress.

 

The cutting judgement that somehow never came.

 

Instead, over their assortment of little plates and refilled glasses of wine, John was offered shared stories of failure. James told him about his first gallery show back in london, a goddamn disaster that had run for two nights and had a grand attendance of three people. Thomas in turn told them about his first case in court, and how he would have lost on every possible front if it hadn’t been for his friend the paralegal who’d found a loophole to use.

 

“It’s your first week John,” Thomas said. “Your first week. It’s hardly a failure if it’s only the beginning.”

 

“That level of optimism must be nice.” John snagged the last pork gyoza from the plate in front of James.

 

“It was gained through about thirty years of nihilism and failure, trust me. Though James has me beat when it comes to pessimism- I’m sorry what is it you call it dear? Realism?”

 

James flipped him off as he reached for the nearly empty bottle of wine. “Hey, I was born into being a bitter fuck don’t expect me to outgrow it.”

 

“Never darling, I do so enjoy having your pessimism to ground my idiocy.” Thomas smiled at him and John could see the telltale pink on the arch of James’ ears. “It was one of the first things I liked about you-”

 

“Really?” John asked, shaking his head as James offered him the wine, instead reaching for his tea.

 

“Really. I think the first thing we did was argue-”

 

“We did.” James answers.

 

“Over what?”

 

“Military action,” James said and John laughed. “I was still in the navy, though near the end of it all. And Mister Oxford here had a lot to say on the role of england’s military and none of it was practical.”

 

“Mm yes he put me soundly on my educated ass that night it was wonderful. To be fair I had been handed far too many cocktails that night-”

 

“Handed? Thomas you brought the bottles of vodka they put in the punch.”

 

“That I can believe. Where did you two meet?” John asked, watching Thomas turn pink as he laughed at the memory.

 

“Our Halloween party.” Thomas wiped his eyes. “Oh nearly fifteen years ago now. We’d had a mutual friend or two and James, the poor thing, got dragged along.”

 

“Costume party?”

 

“Oh of course. What kind of fool do you take me for? Certainly not the kind to have a halloween party and make it fancy dress-” Thomas made a face. “People like that have no souls.”

 

John looked at James. “What was your costume?”

 

“A pirate. My friend Hal’s idea, but I hadn’t had anything better to offer so,” James shrugged. “I was also visiting- I still lived in England at the time and the last thing I was going to do was waste luggage on a damn costume.”

 

“We’d been in New York about three years already, and had started the tradition the second year. Rented out a bar and everything, it’s my favorite party of the year next to the winter party we have in December.” Thomas added.

 

“And what was your costume?” John asked, not wanting him to change the subject. “I want a clear image of how this argument on military action went down.”

 

Thomas fixed James with a wolfish grin, as the color rose in his husband’s face. “I’m sure you remember what it was darling.”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

“What was it?” John asked again

 

Thomas clearly wanted James to relive it, waiting until his husband groaned and answered for him.

 

“He was Rocky. From Rocky Horror.” James grumbled, cheeks burning as John choked on his tea. “Goddamn gold speedo and everything.”

 

“God I thought you’d swallowed your tongue when I introduced myself.” Thomas hummed as he reminisced. “Your face was priceless. You never knew where to look.”

 

John watched them, amused, as Thomas kept teasing James, who grew redder and redder in the face, and slid further and further down in his chair. It was easier, safer, than letting his mind wander off with the image of Thomas in said costume, because the very abstract idea of it made his heart palpitate out of time.

 

Thomas’ phone buzzed excitedly next to his plate, saving James from having to slip under the table to avoid his husband’s mischief.

 

“Oh! Oh hang on, hang on-” Thomas scrambled to answer, dropping his chopsticks quickly and accepting the facetime request. “Darling!”

 

“Shit, did I interrupt dinner? I’m sorry love I can call back in a bit-” a woman’s voice, also english and as melodic as Thomas’, said gently.

 

“No, no it’s perfect timing, James and I are out with a friend,” Thomas turned the phone and James sat up instantly, still red in the face but his irritation gone, replaced with surprise and excitement.

 

“Miranda!”

 

“Hi lovely- oh no Thomas were you teasing him again? James’ you’re all flushed,” she said with a laugh.

 

“We were reminiscing about the night we all met. He’s a goddamn menace you know that,” James replied, but he was smiling nevertheless, watching Miranda laugh with a soft expression.

 

“That I am,” Thomas agreed. “This is John, dear, a friend of Rackhams.”

 

He turned the phone and John was faced with a stunning woman, olive toned skin and doe eyed, her brown hair cut short and messy. She smiled at him, waving with her free hand and John did the same, a bit dazed. It didn’t seem fair that everyone he met was so pretty.

 

“Hello John, it’s lovely to meet you. And good luck with these two, they’re trouble.” She said, laughing at Thomas’ scoff. “But they can be good fun at times.”

 

“They’ve been alright so far. Insufferable but otherwise alright,” he told her. “I’ll keep that in mind though.”

 

Thomas made a face at him as he sat back and turned the phone round to himself. “It’s late darling, are you just getting in?”

 

“Nearly, we had a community fundraiser in South Bank Today that went a tad longer than expected. But I won’t keep you all, I just wanted to check in on you both, make sure you were alright. Oh! And your brother says you need to call him-”

 

“I called him- shit that was last week wasn’t it, damn, alright yeah I’ll call him tomorrow. We miss you, when are you coming back to the city-”

 

John noted, almost endeared, how Thomas’ accent grew heavier as he talked to Miranda, like a piece of him was returning home via something so simple as a phone call.

 

“You know I’m not sure yet pet, but soon, before Thanksgiving I promise. Though you and James are overdue for a London visit, mind you.”

 

“I’ll looks at flights tonight,” James promised.

 

“Good. Alright, I’ll give you back to John- thank you for letting me interrupt dinner John and it was lovely to meet you-”

 

“Likewise,” He said with a wave goodbye.

 

Miranda smiled and through the phone John couldn’t tell if it was fond or curious or some strange mix of both. “Heavens you’re adorable. Have fun in the City, don’t let these two push you around too much.”

 

“Yes ma’am-”

 

James and Thomas both said goodbye, with surprising _I love Yous_ in soft lingering tones.

 

Thomas hummed, sending a quick text to her after hanging up. “God I miss her. Face Times just aren’t enough some days-”

 

“She’s lovely,” John offered, popping a soybean into his mouth, and Thomas nearly giggled like a schoolboy.

 

“Isn’t she? God I love her, I married the best woman didn’t I James-”

 

James laughed as John nearly choked on the soybean, patting his back to help him breathe. “Easy kid-”

 

“Wait, wait I thought- She’s your wife?” John wheezed, grabbing for his water.

 

“Oh, yes, I was married when I met James. Miranda and I were married in College, god we were young.”

 

John looked from one to the other, waiting for more of an explanation. It wasn’t that Thomas had been with a woman, he could see that easily enough. But the two of them were so seamless together that the thought of either of them being with another person was just so difficult to imagine that it hadn’t even occurred to him as possible.

 

Thomas pitied him and pulled out his phone again, scrolling through his instagram until he found the account of one Miranda Barlow. He passed it to John, starting with a photo of an old polaroid they’d taken in college.

 

“We are both from stuffy old families and we were expected to marry young. It wasn’t arranged but it was heavily insisted upon.” he explained. “Miranda and I were barely twenty at the time, when we were married. We were lucky, I was lucky, I married my best friend that day, and I love her desperately still.”

 

“What- what happened?” the photos were varied, Miranda at various restaurants and high class functions, in an office with large windows and a gorgeous view of Central London. Every now and then there was a photo of Thomas amongst them, and a rare sighting of James as well.

 

“We divorced, twelve years ago now. Miranda wanted to have a career, one that was her own unshadowed by a husband and I did not want to hold her back for an instant. We stayed married while she finished her law degree. We divorced and rebuilt our current firm together. when it came time for an overseas branch, she went ahead to lead it. The Barlow of Barlow and Hamilton, as it’s known in London.” Thomas’ voice dripped with pride as he talked about her, a small smile on his face as he watched John scroll through the photos. “If I could be married to two people, I would be. But alas-”

 

“So you know her well too?” John looked over at James, as he found a picture of the three of them in a garden. “The divorce didn’t, I dunno, make things awkward?”

 

“It wasn’t a conventional divorce by a long shot,” James said. “I’ve never met two people still so stupidly in love as they were discussing how to divide their assets with a  divorce attorney.”

 

“It was a divorce of practicality,” Thomas added. “Not one done out of misery.”

 

James leaned in to better see the photo. Miranda was seated on James’ lap, colorful drink in hand as the two of them watched Thomas debate with a faceless friend. “It’s funny, actually, thinking back.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

John was aware of a silent moment shared between them, aware of Thomas and James exchanging a look that carried with it several tons of weight and hesitation and if John believed it possible of them, fear. James sat back, looking John over as he decided on his words. It was a tad unnerving, having both men watching him as if sizing up a threat.

 

“I slept with her first,” James said finally.

 

“Dated, you dated her-” Thomas argued.

 

“No, because it wasn’t dating- Thomas I told you I wasn’t dating either of you while you were getting the divorce, but that didn’t mean fucking was off the table-”

 

John reached over his tea and James’ plate to take the wine bottle and empty the last of it into his glass, finishing it before sighing. “Ok walk me through this because you’ve lost me-”

 

James was still watching him thoughtfully. “They were married, the hosts of the party. She was his Frank-n-furter that night and I must have been there, what, ten minutes before the two of them had their sights on me?”

 

“Oh you make us sound predatory, don’t say it like that-” Thomas said on a groan, waving down their waiter to order a second bottle of wine.

 

“Well, I’m not entirely wrong.” He looked at John again. “They had, according to rumors I’d heard, been known to take on a third, or take their own separate bedpartners now and then. Of course I didn’t give a shit, but I didn’t expect to be considered a candidate for- well- being a third but-”

 

“But they liked what they saw,” John finished for him. “So what, you fucked that night or-”

 

“No I was on leave for two weeks, visiting the city the whole time. Miranda called me, asked me to lunch with the two of them a day or so later. Then she and I had dinner, just us two and things… fell into place.”

 

“They fucked in the car on the way home,” Thomas clarified and John had to try very hard not to picture that in his mind’s eye. James’ face was flushed with color again, though he his tone wasn’t flustered at all.

 

“End of the first week came and I was invited over to their condo for a party” he continued. “There was an unfortunate altercation-” Thomas grimaced at that. “And somehow, by the end of the night I was on this asshole’s arm instead of his wife’s.”

 

“You poor thing,” John said, dry and mocking.

 

James smiled, all sharp teeth and sarcasm. “Anyway, we had the necessary adult conversation in the morning, they asked if I’d stay out my leave with them and consider being their third. I was… caught up in them, almost to an overwhelming point, but I said I’d be their friend with benefits, if that’s what they wanted, but not their partner. Not while the divorce was being finalized.”

 

“He was terribly insistent on that point. Nothing was a date, it was just hanging out.” Thomas said with a sigh, refilling their glasses as the second bottle was set on the table. “And then the divorce finished, and we were all technically single, and he still wouldn’t call it dating.”

 

“I had to go back on duty,” James reminded him. “I wasn’t going to just fucking start a relationship, one with potential risks to my at the time career, when I was going to be across the goddamn atlantic.”

 

“Which Miranda and I understood, so we took the year or so of absence to get to know our dear Captain better.”

 

John nodded, sipping his wine. It made sense, arrangements like that still weren’t exactly accepted in public, despite it all. He had spent years watching Max figure out the balance needed to date Anne who was also dating Jack who was also dating Charles- and to be in the military on top of it all, he couldn’t blame James for wanting to do things carefully.

 

“So a year or so passes,” John says. “And you’ve not grown apart, if anything you’ve gotten closer, so you decided to say fuck it and make it legit?”

 

James made a face. “Sort of. I... resigned my commission and left the service at the end of the year. At that point I wasn’t really sure what to do with myself. I went back to Camden for a bit, tried to sort myself out, and who turns up at my door when they find out?”

 

Thomas hums. “I was worried about you, can you blame me? We both were but Miranda was tied up with a case at the firm, so I arrived for the both of us.”

 

It was a foreign concept to John, someone just turning up to offer moral and emotional support when things went to shit. When Max had been in California they’d had each other. But when she had left for school, California had become a state of strangers. John had crashed and burned more times than he could count, one time literally, and there’d been no one waiting to help lift him from the ashes.

 

“I’m glad,” he said after a moment, staring at his wine. “I’m glad you had each other. That things worked out. It’s- rare.”

 

“It is,” James agreed softly. “It was probably the first time in my life I’d had anyone just there, for no reason other than they wanted to be. Didn’t know what the fuck to do with it at the time but-”

 

“Here we are,” Thomas finished for him.

 

“Here we are.” James nodded. “A decade and some change later.”

 

“Though the glorious state of New York only deems three of those years official marriage in the eyes of the court.”

 

“Mazel tov,” John saluted them both with his glass and Thomas laughed fondly. “You could make Scrooge believe in love, it’s almost gross.”

 

“It is isn’t it?”

 

“It is,” John repeated. “But you’ve earned the right to be gross and sappy. It’s a hilarious look on you by the way,” he said to James, who grinned and nodded in agreement.

 

When Thomas asked for the bill, John asked one last question on the subject.

 

”So wait, if you and Miranda were- were poly when you were married is that still a thing? Between the two of you?”

 

“Does it matter?” James asked, and John didn’t miss the defensive edge to his voice.

 

“No, I mean I don’t judge either way but- my sister is in a similar arrangement and no one wants to take that step towards marriage because they’re- worried I guess, that it makes the whole experience more difficult.”

 

“Oh, well, I can see how it would but it’s no different than before we were married,” Thomas says, snagging the check before James or John could reach for it. “We haven’t had a third, aside from Miranda when she’s in town, there’s never been anyone we found ourselves besotted with honestly-”

 

“But so long as your sister and her partners just make sure they keep it honest, keep communication open, then there’s no reason it can’t work.” James shrugged, finishing his drink. “It’s really not that complicated.”

 

“Is she thinking about getting married?” Thomas asked, settling the bill and standing, jacket slung over his arm.

 

“I don’t know. She won’t tell me honestly but- Anne is probably the most serious thing she’s ever had in her life so, I wouldn’t be shocked.”

 

“Well if they take that step, let me know, I’ve got a few great wedding planners in my address book.”

 

James held the door for him as they slipped back out into the crisp evening, sunset now long past and the neon lights of Chinatown bright and welcoming around them. Thomas said something about dessert a few blocks away, a pastry shop in Little Italy, and John followed happily.

 

His leg ached and the length of the day was starting to hit him, leaving him tired and just a little dazed as they moved through the sea of people. He could feel James’ hand on his back, helping to guide him, warm and steady. He could hear Thomas humming ahead of him, his blonde hair pink in the light of a shop window.

 

His mind wandered, as they found themselves in Little Italy, and John was willing to blame it on the fact he’d had a glass of wine more than he usually did. But he couldn’t help wonder, with what he now knew about them, whether they’d spend a night like this with their third, if they had one. A lazy night in the city, among the crowd, simply being alive and enjoying the simplicity of a good meal and each other’s company. Or would they go to the theater? A club? Something with a pulsing beat and the trendiest of Manhattan’s socialites? No, no they seemed so real and vibrant in that moment, as he watched Thomas chat quickly with a store owner in passable mandarin, that he couldn’t really imagine them in so fabricated a space.

The rest of the evening was a warm neon blur to John, coffee and cannoli shared between them, John being pulled in close with Thomas’ arm around his shoulders, as he and James argued over the best Italian desserts.

 

He was, strangely, content, tucked between them with a warm cup of hot chocolate in his hands.

 

Content. Almost happy, if he could remember what it felt like to be truly happy. The stressors and the impending reality of Monday morning seemed eons away.

 

Finally, Thomas checked his watch and deemed it bedtime, as they both had work early in the morning. James flagged down a cab and Thomas kissed the top of John’s head as he was bundled into it, James giving the driver the address in Weehawken and punching the driver’s code into an app on his phone. John wasn’t even surprised that, when he arrived on the other side of the tunnel and went to pay, that the bill had already been covered by James.

 

Ah well, he told himself, thanking the driver and passing him an extra tip in cash as he slipped out of the cab. He’d just buy James dinner next time.

 

Next time, there was that pesky next time again.

 

Strangely John hoped that there might actually be a next time. Maybe even a few next times. But maybe that was the wine talking.

 

Jack was, as expected, awake and waiting for him in the kitchen, Max at his side.

 

“Why the fuck didn’t you answer your phone?” Max demanded as John leaned against the door and kicked off his boots

 

“I’m sorry, I thought it was Jack being a bitch. I thought you were still with-” he waved his hand, not wanting to name the Ex where Anne could hear.

 

“Oh I’m the one being a bitch?” Jack scoffed. “Thats cute from the one who didn’t answer their phone.”

 

“I got back around dinner time, to find out you were running around with the fucking McGraws.” Max said, looking John over as if she expected him to be hurt. “What the hell John?”

 

“Why is everyone so against these guys? I mean- look can we not do this now?” He asked, the warm haze of the night starting to be eaten away by the cold biting edge of anxiety. “Please can we just wait to ridicule me for my shit life choices until breakfast at least?”

 

“You’ve avoided me once already John.” Jack reminded him, watching him with vague concern as John slowly tottered towards the den. “Are you drunk?”

 

“No. I’m fucking tired Jack. You would be too if you’d walked half of fucking central park today on a goddamn pros.” John said, waving him off. “I promise, I will tell you everything you want to know in the morning just- fuck off for right now, okay?”

 

He heard Max follow him, as Jack said something about uncontrollable children.

 

“You are alright though, aren’t you?” Max asked, as John dropped onto the futon and took off his pros.

 

“Are you?” John asked, looking up at her. “Spending the weekend with your ex? The one you told me you hated?”

 

“Its,” Max chewed her lip. “Complicated, you know that.”

 

“I do. And I trust you,” John, hoisted himself up and hugged her. “I’m alright. I promise. I’d tell you if I wasn’t.”

 

Max hugged him tightly, before offering her arm to help him to the bathroom. “I do want details though, at breakfast. Of all people I thought you might click with, I was not expecting Jack to tell me it was the McGraws.”

 

John smiled. “Yeah, neither did I but- they’re not what I thought, not entirely.”

 

“No?” Max asked.

 

John was quiet for a moment, leaning against the bathroom door frame.

 

“Solomon would have liked them.” He said softly. “Maple too.”

 

Max slumped against the wall across from him at that, watching him wide eyed. “John-”

 

“Maple- Maple would’ve said they were the good eggs, ya know?”

 

“She rarely said that about anyone John. You know she was picky.” Max smiled, but it was thin and heavy with grief.

 

“She’d say it this time Max. I can feel it.”

 

She smiled, and kissed his forehead. “I think you’re just tired love. Get some sleep alright?”

 

“Alright..”

 

“Bon nuit, mon cher,” Max said, slipping off to her bedroom.

 

“Bon nuit,” John called after her, the narrow hallway feeling crowded with the ghosts that had followed them both from California.

 

He washed his face, rinsed away the smell of his day, and wandered back to his makeshift room. Before he laid down, he grabbed his duffle, and the little cigar box he kept safely hidden inside of it. Inside were pieces of sea glass he had found as a child, when he’d first been moved to Santa Cruz by the system. Two hag stones he and Max had found on the beach in middle school. And under the bits and bobs lay a stack of old polaroids, from the vintage camera John had found in a thrift store.

 

He had done his best not to look at them. The therapist he had seen for two months had said that a constant reminder of what he had lost might not aid his recovery. John was fairly certain the guy had been full of shit but he hadn’t had any other advice to lean on, so the photos had been tucked away with the ghosts that clung to them.

 

But something made John pull them out and sort through them until he found the photo he was looking for.

 

It hadn’t been a very special day, when the photo had been taken. Something had just made him pass the camera to someone- he wondered if it was Charlotte, she had been the youngest in the house at the time, before she was adopted by a nice family in Portland- and told them to snap a photo.

 

He and Max, scrawny at fourteen in their too big clothes, were curled on the couch together, with Solomon, the oldest, on John’s right with his arm across the back of the couch. On Max’s left, in her bedazzled crew neck pull over, her graying hair piled on her head, laughing at whatever was on the tv in front of them, sat Maple, the closest thing John would ever have to a mother.

 

His eyes stung as he set aside the box and laid down on the futon, staring at the picture. He’d lost Max to college and the east coast. He’d lost Solomon and Maple to a drunk driver two years later, in the same accident that had taken his leg.

 

After that, there really wasn’t anything left in California. Nothing but strangers and graves.

 

He sighed, wiping his eyes, and moved to put the photo back when his phone buzzed on the futon next to him.

 

It was James.

 

_Thanks, for tagging along today. Hope it wasn’t too dull._

 

John smiled, **Your opinions were. But the park was nice**.

 

 _My opinions? Says the man who can recite every song from Hello Dolly_.

 

**It’s a classic, bite me.**

 

_I’d have to ask Thomas first._

 

John found himself laughing, shaking with near silent laughter as he held the phone and the polaroid to his chest.

 

**Tell him thanks for dinner?**

 

 _You’ve got his number, kid. I’m not your personal telegram service_.

 

 **Telegram? God you’re old**.

 

 _I’m told the kids call it Vintage these days_.

 

John wiped his eyes as another message arrived, this time from Thomas.

 

**_I’m glad you enjoyed dinner. I hope we can do it again soon. <3_ **

 

The little emoji heart surprised him, but John couldn’t help smile at it.

 

 **Same here. Hope work isn't a bitch tomorrow <3**, he typed out, adding a little heart on the end just to make it all even. It didn’t strike him as  an odd thing to do in the moment. Maybe it should have.

 

 **_Text us if you need anything_ ** , Thomas replied.

 

 _Good night John_ , James said, _sleep well_.

 

John found himself reading and rereading the texts until his eyes started to ache and sleep was hopefully inevitable. He set his phone aside and , instead of hiding the photo away like he usually did, he snagged a bit of tape from the desk and hung the little polaroid next to the futon.

 

 **Goodnight** , he sent back to both of them

 

Max didn’t question th polaroid in the morning, though John did catch her staring at it while he pulled on a hoodie and some shorts before breakfast. What she did question was the heart emojis.

 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” She asked, as John showed her the conversation with Thomas, Jack trying not to burn oatmeal at the stove. “Or is that just like, how he texts?”

 

“I dunno, I’m leaning towards just how he is?” John offered.

 

“Why did you send one back?”

 

“Because it was the middle of the night and I was exhausted, babe, I don’t know.” John shrugged. “He bought me dinner, James paid for the cab fair. It just seemed like the thing to add.”

 

Jack and Max looked at each other.

 

“They paid for dinner?” Jack repeated.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“And the cab fare home.”

 

John nodded, reaching for his coffee. Jack’s suspicion seemed to slowly be fading, but John wasn’t sure if he liked the look of mischief that was replacing it.

 

“And the night of the party?” Max asked. “Nothing happened, you just crashed and then they fixed you breakfast in the morning?”

 

“Yes that’s what I said. I told you both I wasn’t going to whore myself out, and I meant it.”

 

“Where’s Charles’ suit?” Jack asked.

 

“The cleaners, I can text Thomas about it. He offered to have it cleaned, they leant me clothes.”

 

“Both of them are nearly twice your size John.” Max said.

 

“Please don’t remind me,” he said with a groan. “I’m pretty sure Thomas just ordered clothes that night and they were delivered in the morning which- I don’t really want to think about honestly-”

 

Jack whistled as he dumped the oatmeal into three bowls. “Well. This is very different than I first thought.”

 

“The fuck are you talking about?” John asked.

 

“It sounds a lot less like b-movie murder night and a lot more like-”

 

“Oh Jack no, don’t be ridiculous. They were just being nice-” Max rolled her eyes.

 

“Tell me that’s not how it sounds, Max-”

 

“Sounds like what?” John demanded.

 

Jack winced. “Would you prefer My Fair Lady or Pretty Woman?”

 

John rolled his eyes so hard it almost hurt. “Oh fuck off Jack.”

 

“Seriously though! You spend the night, get a homemade breakfast, they go shopping for you. They come all the way out to fucking Weehawken to give you back your passport, only to then whisk you away on a midtown adventure, ending the whole affair with dinner and drinks, on their dime mind you, before sending you home in a cab, again, on their dime.” He snagged the phone from Max and showed John the texts from Thomas, the heart emoji mocking him. “And they they say Goodnight with little fucking heart emojis! I mean what do you think it is?”

 

“I think you need to stop sniffing Anne’s developing chemicals,” John replied dryly. “Because it’s starting to fuck with your cognitive function.”

 

Max laughed as she took her bowl of oatmeal and added blueberries and cream to it. “Alright, alright, both of you. Jack, let it go. John is not about to become the McGraw’s sugarbaby. It was just a weekend, they were probably bored and wanted a distraction.”

 

“Exactly,” John agreed, ignoring the odd sting at the thought of it being simply a passing fancy.

 

Jack seemed entirely unconvinced. “Alright if that’s all, then delete their numbers from your phone.”

 

“No.”

 

“Why not, John?”

 

“Because if this is how you’re gonna be the whole damn time I’m here then I might need a good lawyer when I dump your body in the river,” he replied. “I hear Hamilton and Barlow do pretty good pro bono work.”

 

“You wouldn’t have the heart, you love me too much.”

 

“I dunno I’m starting to reconsider.”

 

Jack laughed and kissed the top of his head. “Alright fine, I’ll let it go. But look, if they offer you the chance to be a sugar baby, take it. Seriously. In this city that’s the best way to get by.”

 

“Fuck off Jack.”

 

“Love you too, John.”

 

Max took his hand after Jack left. “He’s not wrong though. If it- turns into something, it doesn’t sound like a such a bad thing in the end. At least they’re not like, eighty with a foot fetish.”

 

“Please don’t ever say that sentence again,” John groaned, resting his head on the counter. “Please.”

 

There wasn’t the chance for further interrogation, with seven am ticking closer on the kitchen clock, they all had to get ready to face the outside world. Max had both jobs that day, Modeling and a photography session until five, bartending from six until one in the morning. Jack was needed in office to edit drafts of six articles he’d submitted. And by the time they were all comfortably in their work, Anne and Charles would be coming home from their night shifts as campus security at NYU.

 

John’s day was spent with two auditions and a portfolio review in Williamsburg, some small time hipster theater that claimed to care more about quality than the author’s name and experience.

 

As expected it was a load of PR bullshit. John was fairly certain they hadn’t even turned past his first script, let alone taken the time to read everything. They’d see two directing credits in small town California theaters and had written him off as the nobody he was.

It took him over an hour to get back to Weehawken, sandwiched in the subway car with the rest of the city’s exhausted rush hour victims. He grabbed a sandwich from the bodega on the corner and, on a poisonous whim, a pack of cigs and a lighter, hiding them in his duffel when he got home. He’d technically quit, though he’d been blessed with never really developing an addiction. But sometimes it was the only thing that eased the edge of a really shitty day.

 

John was pleased to find that a midnight cigarette on the fire escape outside his window, with the glittering phantom of Manhattan mocking his failure from across the river, was oddly therapeutic.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John had hoped, perhaps naively, that he'd left all the snake oil salesmen back west. Long story short, he hadn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this chapter takes a moment to focus a little more on John's career and art form. In Canon he is a story teller, a wordsmith who is, in truth, almost unrivaled, and I felt that a play wright, nonfiction author, and poet would be the most accurate modern interpretation of such a role. Of course, as I'm sure a lot of us have learned, networking is the one clear path to a actual career, so John spends this chapter trying to make good on his supposed mentor ships.
> 
> Which brings in another point. I realize that this version of Hornigold might be odd to some. But in my opinion, the modern pirate hunter is the man who shacks up with the oppressed and the rebellious when it suits him, for the aesthetic, for street cred, only to turn on his heel and try to support the privileged narrative the moment his authority and identity as "superior" is questioned. there's a bit of homophobia and ableism in this chapter but ts brief and john shuts it down rather quickly.
> 
> tldr- fuck hornigold

Tuesday went a lot like Monday, Chelsea sending him packing the same way Williamsburg had, though with a little more constructive criticism for him to smoke over. He spent the night reviewing his portfolio, editing his three monologues and fine tuning his two stage plays over stale coffee and another cigarette on his fire escape, telling himself that fresh eyes and peer review was what had dragged him to the east coast in the first place.

 

Wednesday morning came and John was up well before the rest of the house. While in California, during his very short stunt as a community college student, he’d made the acquaintance of a playwright who taught for Julliard at times, when it suited him. He was old school, the kind of guy John imagined hung out with Allen Ginsberg’s crowd when he was in college and smoked european cigarettes and wore nothing but turtlenecks while he lectured on avant garde theater. 

 

Or at least, that was the impression John had gotten of him from the brief visit the man had paid to UCLA, for a free seminar on theater John had managed to attend. He’d been lucky, timing his departure just right so he and one Ben Hornigold might end up leaving the lecture hall together, allowing them to strike up a brief conversation. 

 

It had worked, enough to get John an email address and a vague promise that he’d read over a monologue or two when he had the time, since John had been so attentive during his seminar. While John had expected to be ignored, he emailed him what he believed was his best work. 

 

Hornigold replied two days later, with the same files attached and a short email telling John he’d made some notes and was looking forward to seeing the next draft. When John opened the documents he found scanned copies of his work, covered in handwritten corrections and notes all along the margins.

 

A bizarre unofficial mentorship had been born. 

 

When John wrote Hornigold a year later, telling him he was coming to New York for a month, Hornigold had offered John two days or so at his theater workshop in Greenwich. Nothing official, no job, no place with his students, but a chance for him to experience what a real workshop was like, a chance to meet real directors and writers and learn from observations. 

 

“You’re going to do fine, John,” Max told him, curled up on the futon, still half asleep at six am, while John dug through his clothes to find something appropriate to wear. 

 

“I’m going to be surrounded by people ten times better than I am, and I don’t even have anything to wear that doesn’t scream broke California hipster. This is going to be a goddamn disaster.” He sighed and ran his hands through his hair again, his curls a wild mane from nervous fidgeting.

 

“Why not wear those?” Max asked, pointing at the gray jeans and the black turtleneck John had hanging on the back of the door, too afraid to so much as touch them now that he knew what they were worth. 

 

John stared at them for a long moment, weighing his options. But in the end they were the nicest things he had. So John sighed, went to shower, and pulled on the clothes Thomas had bought him. 

 

“You’re staying in Manhattan tonight, right?” Max asked, “Are you sure you have to?”

 

“The workshops sometimes run late and I don’t want to leave early ‘cause I have to get back here. It’s alright, I found a place in Kips Bay that’s not too expensive.” John said, packing clothes back into his duffle. 

 

“How much?”

 

“Four hundred or so for four nights. They said they’re not too booked this month so if I need to add a night or two I can, if things go well, ya know?”

 

“Its… not terrible. But you can’t afford to spend all your savings on the hotel.”

 

“If I can keep it under a thousand then I’m happy. I don’t have many expenses Max, it’ll be alright.”

 

“You’ll come home if it isn’t, okay?”

 

John kissed the top of her head. “I promise.”

 

Though in his heart he hoped and prayed he’d be in kips bay until the workshop turned into an honest to god job, no matter how much of his precious eight thousand dollars it cost him. 

 

The workshop began at 9 and John was the first person lingering outside the old converted brownstone when Hornigold appeared at 8:30, looking only a little grayer than the last time they’d met. He’d dropped his duffle at the hotel on the way. 

 

“Ah! Silver, I’d hoped you manage to find your way here,” Hornigold said, shaking his hand. “Come on, you can help me set up for our classes today.” 

 

“I really am grateful for this, sir. We just don’t have these kind of resources back home,” John said, following him into the converted first floor. The living room and dining room had been turned into a makeshift classroom, the basement John knew served as a black box theater for the students to practice in. Hornigold and his associates taught everything from writing to directing and even acting, putting the few lucky students who could afford it through the same paces as the old teachers of theater’s golden age, or so their website claimed. 

 

“Of course not, California is the land of the silver screen, theater can’t survive in a place like that. I told you, you should have moved east long ago if you were serious about this.”

 

“Well, you know how it is-” John said with a shrug, but Hornigold wasn’t listening.

 

“A city like this, or a city like Chicago, is the only place you can truly go to learn real theater. If you can go to London then you have found yourself in the Mecca, but for us Americans, New York is the only place on earth that matters.” he continued, and John knew he was on a tangent that wouldn’t easily be interrupted. 

 

So he fell silent, speaking up only when asked a not so rhetorical question. Then the students began to arrive, and any chance he’d had to ask Hornigold questions was lost in favor of watching the students and their mentors work. 

 

Five hours in and they broke for lunch. 

 

Another five hours and those who felt they’d achieved their goals for the day left at 7. A handful of students stayed later, wanting a more thorough review of their work. John stayed along with them, paying rapt attention and following Hornigold here and there until at ten o’clock the last students left and they closed up for the night.

 

John wanted to say that he’d learned more in those thirteen hours than he had in the ten years he’d been studying theater. But in reality he’d spent the majority of the time playing lackey to Hornigold and his associates, helping students rehearse and standing in for the actors to practice with. He’d only managed to fill a handful of pages in his notebook, scrawled messy snidbits of the advice given during the lectures, of observations made during the rehearsals, pieces of so called wisdom thrown away by Hornigold as John followed him through the offices. 

 

He arrived at his hotel in Kips Bay dead on his feet, thanking the clerk for the late check in and signing off on the bill, only half listening as the man explained his card wouldn’t be charged until check out, whenever that time came. The hotel had popped up on one of his google searches when he’d first arrived, two stars and a few hundred raving reviews from broke tourists who traveled to Manhattan from mostly abroad. It was still richly decorated the way he imagined old hotels in the forties might have been, all dark wood molding and rich red and gold carpet. He took his bag and crammed himself into the little antique elevator, heading up to the sixth floor where room 604 waited for him. 

 

He didn’t bother ordering dinner. It hardly seemed worth it when he’d be up and running out the door in another six or seven hours, if he even managed to get any sleep. He’d just make sure to get a larger breakfast, and grab take away to bring along for lunch. He’d forgotten to do so, and spent his lunch break trying to talk to Hornigold about his work, only to be ignored in favor of conversation about the terrible state of Broadway these days. 

 

It was past midnight and his hunger had faded into the all over exhaustion and sense of defeat that gripped him.

 

John sighed and hung up his clothes so they wouldn’t get ruined overnight. He’d forgo the turtleneck he decided, he’d wear one of his old band t-shirts or something he wasn’t afraid to ruin, if Hornigold was going to have him running around with armfuls of scripts and supplies. He thought about sending a text to Thomas, thanking him again for the clothes, but the thought got lost as he unpacked his bag and wandered to the shower. He was glad he’d spent the extra money on a room with it’s own bathroom. And really, Max didn’t need to know the four hundred was really seven. It’d only be for a few days, and John could cut costs across the board to make sure his savings covered at least another week, before he trudged back to Weehawken.

 

“I’ll have a paycheck,” he told his reflection in the foggy bathroom mirror. “I’ll have a paycheck, in two or three weeks time. I will. I will. There’s-”

 

_ There’s no other option _ , he wanted to say.

 

But the possibility of failure was always present in the fringes of his mind, eating way at the feeble levels of self confidence he pretended to have.

 

John sighed and dropped onto the bed, grabbing his arnica gel to try and ease the ache in his stump.

 

He looked up in surprise as his phone buzzed, assuming it was Max checking in on him as she left work. 

 

Instead he found a message from James.

 

_ Ran into Rackham today. Says you’re in some theater workshop _ . 

 

John stared at the message, unsure of what to say. He hadn’t expected to hear from either of them, despite wanting to. He didn’t know if he was supposed to text them, or wait to see if they were still interested or- god he sounded ridiculous.

 

_ Don’t take any shit _ , James added and John, emotionally and physically exhausted, found himself wanting to cry.

 

**Unless it’s from you?** He replied, switching off the light and collapsing onto the mattress.

 

_ If it’s from me you probably deserve it. But any shit they feed you is not worth your time. _

 

**How do you know?**

 

_ Because every asshole in New York thinks they’re an expert on something. They aren’t, they just make money conning others into thinking they are. _

 

**You include yourself in that, Mister Metropolitan Museum?**

 

_ Nah, cause I acknowledge I don’t know shit about most things. For example, I know nothing about Hello Dolly, I’ll admit that. _

 

**You are never going to let that musical go are you?**

 

_ Nope. _

 

**Alright oh wise one. What do I say if they feed me shit?**

 

_ I find Go fuck Yourself works wonders _ .

 

John laughed softly.  **I’ll keep that in mind, or try to. Thanks.**

 

_ You’ll be fine. _

 

John wanted to believe it, wanted desperately to believe it, that he was going to be alright. He sat up and grabbed the cigar box from his duffle and the little roll of tape he’d stolen from Jack’s desk. He’d thought about just taping up the first polaroid, of them as a family all those years ago, but by the time he was done, all twenty are carefully taped to the wall next to the bed. 

 

He spent a half hour just staring at them in the morning, as the dawn crept over Manhattan outside his window. He memorized them, the phantom melodies of old show tunes in his ears, Roberta Flack on a scratched and echoey vinyl covering a song from The Man of La Mancha, her voice a faint heartbeat in his ears.

 

He found the song on his phone and played it as he got ready for the workshop, played it on repeat until he was ready to leave the safety of his little corner hotel room, until the song would be comfortably stuck in his head all day until he collapsed from exhaustion again that night. 

 

The lyrics carried him through the streets as he grabbed his breakfast, blending into the crowd, an unknown, scorned and scarred as the song said. Maple had played the vinyl, no matter how scratched it had been, whenever she felt things were getting too tough. John could remember Vandross’ voice echoing around their little house for hours some nights as she paid bills and balanced her books. 

 

This was his quest, he told himself, turning the corner into Greenwich and trekking the last few blocks to Hornigold’s school. His quest, his star- to make something of himself so the fear of the gutter no longer haunted him.

 

John checked his phone when he arrived, five minutes to eight thirty, and found himself rereading James’ text on top of it all.

 

_ You’ll be fine, _ He had said.  _ You’ll be fine. _

 

John would believe it. He had to.

 

He wasn’t entirely shocked when the day passed much like the previous one had. Hornigold had told him that they’d sit down after they closed up for the night, and go over the two new monologues John had written and brought along in his portfolio. So John held onto that. It was his fuel to get him through the day, skipping lunch to review his work so he and Hornigold could have a constructive discussion about what needed to be improved. Otherwise, he went where he was told, held what he was given, carried what was needed, stood where someone nameless needed to stand. He’d be a prop for a while if it meant finally getting somewhere in this goddamn business. He’d been a prop for a long time, he could stomach it a bit longer.

 

The lectures wrapped up entirely around eight that night, all the students leaving together until John and Hornigold were the only ones left in the makeshift school. 

 

“Now, I did say we’d go over these-”

 

John looked up from the chairs he was stacking to see Hornigold holding a pile of scripts, the pages littered with red ink. “Ah, yes if it isn’t too much trouble.”

 

Hornigold wasn’t listening, muttering to himself as he reread one of the pages, then another. John watched him, anxiety eating a hole in his stomach.

 

“Your first monologues that you sent me were rather excellent, Silver,” Hornigold began. “These however are very rough and raw. They have potential but they need a lot of work before I can see them crafted into something for the stage.”

 

John swallowed bile and ignored the ache in his chest that felt like he’d been kicked, the same sensation that had been following him since he’d arrived. “Okay, I- they are raw they’re meant to be more of the spoken word-”

 

“Spoken word isn’t theater, Silver, nor is it poetry in the end but I will let the kids have their fun so long as I don’t have to sit through it.” Hornigold handed him the scripts. “I have made some notes that I think will help. If you like, you are welcome to continue attending the workshops while you’re in town, and we can continue working on the drafts. I’d like to read your two short plays next I think.”

 

It was all muffled, his rambling words, as John skimmed over the notes on the pages in front of him. Notes yes, scribbled advice in the margins as he’d expected, he could accept notes. 

 

But that damned red ink had left giant Xs over several paragraphs of the first monologue, and an entire page of the second, sections that John had felt were the heart and soul of the pieces. 

 

“Sir?”

 

“Yes what is it?”

 

“I don’t understand some of these edits-”

 

“Ah forgive me my handwriting is rather atrocious,” Hornigold said, stepping closer to try and clarify.

 

“No, no I can read your handwriting but this-” John held up the entire X’d out page. “This I don’t understand.”

 

“Well I thought a red X was rather to the point.”

 

“Sir- this entire page is the core of the monologue- it’s the so called climax of it I can’t just remove the entire thing-” John felt ill, the sweat he’d built up running around the room throughout the day turning cold and clammy on his skin.

 

His monologues had, like a lot of his work, been semi-autobiographical. If not about him then they were focused on people like him- destitute, angry, queer, broken, rebuilding, and forgotten by the world at large. The two monologues in question were entirely focused around the struggle he face back home in California, about his recovery from the accident, just on the face of another. That’s what, John had thought, made them monologues and not just diary entries that got out of hand. 

 

They spoke to a community that mainstream theater didn’t seem to give a shit about anymore. Or maybe, he began to think, as Hornigold took the papers back, it had never truly given a shit about them in the first place. 

 

“There’s no need to be so melodramatic about it. You wanted constructive criticism I have offered it. Look,” Hornigold took the other monologue, the one John had written about realizing he was queer, the months spent in abject misery thinking Maple was going to kick him out if he told her. “Take this piece here-”

 

John took a slow breath. “It’s meant to be a piece on identity sir. These sections you’ve X’d out are meant to reflect that.”

 

“I can see that, and the piece as a whole presents the struggle of the narrator, in trying to find who they are at their core. But this here-” a paragraph on the first boy he’d taken notice of- “And this-” questions posed about whether he was anything at all if he only felt the pull towards someone emotionally- “these don’t hold relevance to the audience at large.”

 

“What?”

 

“You need to remember that if you want to be successful in this business, that the world is your stage.”

 

“You also told me never to write for the world, or my writing would die in infancy,” John reminded him, biting the inside of his cheek.

 

“Which is true, but this is politics. This is social politics acted out on a stage- which I have also told you, Silver, does not make good art. Art and politics may go hand in hand in some cases but-”

 

“How is this not that case sir?”

 

“Because one’s identity is not meant to be political, no matter how many times the world is forced to contest that notion, the identity of the character outside of it’s relevance to the story is not meant to be political,” Hornigold cut him off, handing him back the scripts. “And your work is reading more like an angry protest on the internet than a playwright creating art because of this.”

 

John stared at him, which was a mistake really, as it made Hornigold think he was listening to him talk.

 

“Theater is about struggle,” he continued. “And thus it is about triumph, it is about raw human emotion but it needs to be the sort of thing handled with care, the kind of thing that makes use of subtext and the subtle art of allusion-”

 

“Subtext?” John demanded. “I’ve- you’ve acknowledged the piece is clearly about the narrator’s identity but you’re telling me I just need to- erase everything clear cut and honest from the narrative and trust the audience to just understand?”

 

“No one is going to the theater to listen to the whining of a confused teenage virgin who can’t sort out if he’s gay or not-”

 

“I am! I am, thousands of people who- who have been through the exact same goddamn thing are going to the theater for this very fucking reason!” John almost pitied him for his ignorance but it was buried beneath a rising wave of bile and fury. “And those thousands of people have spent their entire lives being- being nothing but subtext! Nothing but an afterthought!”

 

His outburst silenced Hornigold for the first time that day and John was not about to let the opportunity slip by.

 

“When I met you I was upfront about who I am, about what I am, about my disability, about my politics,” he continued fighting to keep his voice stable. He would not let this man see him cry. “And you told me shit like that made good art. That I had a voice that was unique and able to capture the attention of those who lent an ear even for a moment-”

 

“You do, Silver, but there is also an immaturity that you’ve yet to out grow,” Hornigold said tightly. “Sorry to say, but the world is not fixated on you as it’s axis.”

 

“You think I don’t fucking know that? You think I’ve just spent my entire life overwhelmed with the attention I’ve received? You knew! You knew who the hell I was and yet you urged me on anyway. Why? Because you just enjoy playing the- the role of a rebel only to find converts to your way of thinking? Is that it?” 

 

“How dare you-”

 

John grabbed his bag. “We are not your fucking subtext. We are not some theme you get to argue about over drinks and smokes as if we’re a fucking abstract concept. We are blood and bone and frankly we are sick and fucking tired of being footnotes to people like you. Thank you, sir, for the fucking opportunity, but you can choke on it for all I care.”

 

His pros ached as he stormed out onto the street and booked it down the block, needing to get as far away from the school as possible. Each step had the realisation of what had happened settling more and more into place, registering on all levels as stomach acid threatened to burn his throat the way his words had. 

 

He’d been tricked, conned by a real con man, into believing his work had a place, that his voice was worth being heard. John had told himself, time and again, that he’d never fall for the bullshit a successful man would feed him, because all successful men lied. 

 

And yet he’d gone and done it anyway, trekking across the goddamn country only to find out his so called mentor was no more than the same breed of snake oil salesman he’d left back home.

 

John didn’t know what to do. He needed to get off the street, needed to get inside before the impending meltdown he could feel in every goddamn nerve of his body finally hit. He walked as fast as his weary limbs could carry him, adrenaline and miserable rage the only fumes he had to fuel him, the cigarette in his shaking hands a life preserver in the tempest. He barely saw the street around him. If asked he couldn’t tell which streets he’d taken home, where he had stopped, if he had stopped.

 

But the next thing he knew he was locked in his hotel room with a bottle of whiskey and another pack of cigarettes, drinking straight from the bottle before he even set down his back pack. He hissed as it burned down his throat, replacing the acidic taste on his tongue. It was an old familiar taste, from the early days of his recovery- the touch of honey, the crisp clean finish. It was like the open arms of an old girlfriend, he thought, the kind that never took care of you, but eased the ache in the moment.

 

Not that John had ever known what that kind of love was like. No he’d had one girl, one beautiful girl who’d shone as bright as the stars, for one hopeful summer. 

 

He took another long swig and wiped his face on his sleeve. The tears were finally falling, the thought of his Madi the final fissure in the dam. 

 

He’d lost her too. To the life she’d left back home, the legacy she carried, the future she was going to create for herself. He missed her, god he missed her in ways he hadn’t thought himself capable of. But he was nothing compared to the life left waiting, he’d known that then, he knew that now. And that meant letting her go and not following her to South Africa the way he had wanted. 

 

It meant curling up on the bathroom floor of a tiny hotel room in a city that was trying to destroy him, drinking straight liquor for the first time in four years, instead of calling her and begging. It meant weathering rock bottom, numbing the pain with the old standbys until they also let him down and all he could do was sleep it off. 

 

He managed to get his pros off, somewhere between the bathroom floor and the bed. He’d gotten good at functioning while shit faced once. He tossed it aside and nudged his bag out of the way as he stumbled to bed, the bottle still in hand. 

 

The last thing he remembered doing, before passing out, the bottle safe on the nightstand, was grabbing his phone.

 

Morning came with the telltale drumming of a migraine in his head, John groaning softly at the light bleeding through his flimsy blinds. The clock radio on the bedside table droned on softly about the weather, the alarm he’d set and forgotten to turn off waking him at six. He sat up slowly, switching it off and hopping awkwardly to the bathroom to be sick and brush his teeth. He dug through his bag for his pill box, taking a few painkillers with the only drink within reach. John had never tried to whole “hair of the dog” remedy for a hangover. But he absently hoped, as he took another swig from the bottle, that it was true, the whiskey burning through the lingering flavor of his toothpaste. 

 

He woke up again a few hours later, though he never bothered with the time. He got up again and washed his face, downing a glass of water, then another, before finding the little box of protein bars he kept in his duffel for emergencies. He knew absently that caffeine would help, but the last thing he wanted to do was leave the hotel room for an instant. 

 

New York could rot for all he care, and he’d rot along with it. 

 

John heard his phone buzzing the next time he woke up, the sun gone from his window, signaling late afternoon. He sighed and fumbled for it, plugging it into the charger by the bed before checking the screen.

 

Max had called him twice, left a voicemail and a handful of texts trying to make sure he was alright. Jack had texted him too, something about running into James on his lunch break, which John assumed was his bullshit way of saying he sought James out in order to meddle.

 

He ignored Jack’s texts, but sent a few to Max, apologizing, and promising her he was alright, just sleeping off a long day’s work. He could tell her the truth later when he returned to Weehawken with his tail between his legs. 

 

John rubbed his eyes as he scrolled through the last notifications, pausing when he saw James’ name amongst them.

 

“Oh fuck me,” he muttered, opening the conversation and preparing for the worst. 

 

**You were right** , he had texted at two am. He could barely remember the conscious thought of doing so, thinking to himself that James, a respectable member of society with a job, was going to be asleep.

 

Apparently James hadn’t been.

 

_ About what? _

 

**All of it.**

 

_ That’s cryptic _ .

 

**The workshop. Was bullshit** .

 

_ Oh. Damn, you good? _

 

**No. But u were right.**

 

_ About? _

 

**Go fuck urself wrks well** .

 

_ It does. You ok? _

 

_ John? _

 

_ Hey  _

 

_ Kid? _

 

_ Text me. _

 

The last one was time stamped at six thirty am, sent while John was getting acquainted with his toilet bowl. He groaned, covering his eyes as he wallowed for a moment. Maybe texting Madi would have been easier to talk his way out of.

 

He took a slow breath and another swig of whiskey for morale, and looked back to the phone.

 

**Hey. Sorry.**

 

John closed his eyes and prayed James’ was busy at work, too busy to check his phone.

 

The phone buzzed in his hand and he cursed it, the room, his life, and the universe as a whole for being utterly against him.

 

_ Oh, good, you aren’t dead _ , James replied

 

**Not yet.**

 

_ You okay? _

 

**Yeah, sorry. I was all over the place last night.** Which was one mild way of putting it. His stomach churned, he’d need actual food sooner or later. 

 

_ No shit. I know a drunk text when I get one _ .

 

**Sorry.**

 

_ Stop apologizing. It’s fine _ .

 

**It’s not** .

 

_ It is. Get some rest. I’ll leave the lecture to your sister _ .

 

John set the phone aside with another groan. At least he hadn’t tried flirting with him. He’d been known to get that way when he drank, half of why he made sure he never got drunk. He relied entirely on his wits to get by in life, if they failed him, he was ruined. And nothing seemed to ruin them fast than a few strong drinks. 

 

He dozed again, ignoring his phone whenever he woke up. Max would trust him, he hoped, and leave him in his misery a while longer. If she didn’t hear from him she’d turn up on her way to work and then he could explain himself. And maybe have her bring his things so he could catch a greyhound back west.

 

The thought made him sit bolt upright in bed, the room spinning around him, the sun mostly set outside his window.

 

What the fuck was he thinking? Catching a greyhound? During his second week?

 

If he went back to California now he had failed before the month was even over. 

 

If he went back now Hornigold would be right. He’d be nothing but a footnote, nothing but subtext.

 

He’d win.

 

John took a slow breath, then another, and swung his legs out of bed, pressing his foot into the rough carpeted floor.

 

If he had relied on any kind of motivator in his life, it was spite above all else. Sure, it was nice to think of bettering the world, it was nice to think of doing better for himself, but in the end, he did most things out of sheer, unadulterated spite. 

 

This would just be another example, he told himself, exhausted but resolved. 

 

He’d make it, at least to the end of the month. He’d go to more auditions, he’d redo his portfolio again, maybe even tag along to NYU with Anne one day, or see if Jack needed help at the studi. Podcasts needed writers after. 

 

But he’d outlast the month, if nothing else. Sure, there was a good chance all that would be left of him at the end was an empty shell, but he’d been there before. 

 

John dragged himself out of bed and into the shower, trying as best he could to feel human enough to walk a block to the pizza place he had passed. When he did, he pulled on whatever clothes he could find, grabbed his wallet, and stepped out into the chilly October air. He didn’t stop at the liquor store again on his walk back, not even turning to look at the window displays. He kept his eyes on the sidewalk in front of him until he was stepping back into the lobby of his hotel. 

 

He ate half the pizza, with intermittent sips of watered down whiskey and soda, and set aside the second half for breakfast. He checked his phone, replying to Max’s texts that yes he was alright, don’t worry, he’ll call her tomorrow and explain, and ignoring Jack’s phone calls. The last thing he needed was Jack’s attempts at advice.

 

James hadn’t texted him back, not that John had really expected him too. He was probably annoyed to be saddled with it in the first place. So John set the phone aside and turned out the lights, hoping that maybe his idiocy would be forgotten or at least forgiven. 

 

His alarm Friday morning, at 8 am, was the frantic buzzing of his phone as Jack called for the third time. John hung up on him, rolling back over and trying to go back to sleep. He’d not scheduled anything for the weekend, thinking he’d be spending Friday at work and the consequent weekend making good on all the knowledge he’d gathered from Hornigold’s apparent charity. 

 

Now, John reasoned he’d just spend another day in bed, recovering from the abuse he’d put his body through, and maybe if he felt up to it, eat out somewhere in the neighborhood. He’d seen a little Sicilian place near the pizza shop, maybe there. 

His phone rang again an hour later, and again at 10, buzzing like an angry bee on his bedside table. He knew it was Jack, at this point he knew Jack was just being petulant about being ignored. He’d done it before when John had failed to answer his phone.

 

But when the phone rang again, not half an hour later, John sat up and answered, finally fed up.

 

“Fucking Christ, Jack, what?” He demanded.

 

There was a pause on the other end.

 

“Well,” Thomas said and John felt sick all over again. “I very much don’t want to be Rackham right now.”

 

“Oh- oh god I’m sorry-” John groaned softly. “Jack’s been calling me all morning I’m sorry I thought-”

 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright, don’t worry, no harm done,” Thomas assured him, and John could hear the sounds of the park in the background, the faint jingle of Ody’s collar.

 

“Getting to the park at last?” John asked and Thomas hummed. 

 

“Got antsy this morning, thought I’d take Ody for a Run. Are- John are you alright? You sound like you’ve got a cold.”

 

“Not a cold. I’m alright.”

 

“Ah, still dealing with a hangover? James mentioned you’d been on a bit of a bender the other night.”

 

“God tell him I’m sorry again, I didn’t mean to text him.”

 

“John,” and Thomas’ tone was firm. “I told you to text us if you needed anything. I’m willing to include drunken reassurance in that category.”

 

“Thanks, I guess.” John sniffled and wiped his face. “Just had a shit day, didn’t handle it well.”

 

“I’ve been there.”

 

“What- uhm, sorry you had called for a reason I’m sure,” John dragged himself out of bed, opening the blinds and switching the AC unit on to try and wake himself up. 

 

“I was wondering if you had plans today, that was all.”

 

“R-really?”

 

Thomas laughed. “Why is that so surprising? I thought we’d had fun on Sunday.”

 

“We did I- I mean I did, yeah-”

 

“Then doesn’t it make sense that we continue to try and enjoy each other’s company?” Thomas asked.

 

John stared at his ragged reflection in the mirror, at a loss.

 

“I’m- not really adjusted to this whole, social life thing. Or the making new friends thing,” he admitted. 

 

“Neither is James. We don’t have to, I won’t be hurt if you’d rather spend the day resting or being lazy-”

 

John looked around the hotel room, evidence of his already wasted lazy day scattered around the floor. “Uh- no. No I think I’m due for trip outside of the hotel.”

 

“Hotel? I thought you were staying with your sister.”

 

“I am, but there was- there was a thing in Greenwich this weekend I was going to attend so I figured getting a room for the week was best.”

 

“Sensible I suppose. Which neighborhood?”

 

“Uh, Kips Bay I think. Hotel 31?”

 

“Have you had breakfast yet?” Thomas asked, and John heard the heavy front door of the brownstone close.

 

“No.”

 

“Brunch then? My treat. You can tell me what’s going on or we can make small talk about the weather, whichever you prefer.”

 

The thought of telling someone, of sharing the anger and the upset about it all, seemed wiser than finishing the second half of the whiskey bottle. Wiser and more terrifying all at once.

 

“John? Shall I come pick you up? Say, half an hour?” Thomas asked after a moment of silence from John.

 

“Yeah. Yeah that’s fine just- no where fancy, I’ve got no clothes fit for anything more than the two dollar sign option on the google search, ya know?” John mumbled. 

 

“Nothing fancy, love, I promise. I’ll see you in half an hour okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

John hung up and stared at the mess around him. He cursed once, then again, then went to shower and find something presentable to wear. He didn’t exactly trust Thomas’ idea of “Not Fancy” if he was the kind of person to have brunch regularly. He was ready in fifteen minutes, his damp hair pulled up in a little bun, and spent the last few minutes putting his hotel room back together.

 

When Thomas texted him to tell him he was in the Lobby, John could almost believe, between his reflection in the mirror, and the tidied state of his room, that he actually had his shit together. Even if it was held together with scotch tape, it was something. 

 

Thomas was, to John’s relief, dressed in jeans with holes at the knees and an old henley, not the fine silk shirts he usually wore. John felt better about his own torn jeans and well loved green sweater as he stepped out of the little elevator. Thomas looked up from the front desk clerk he was chatting with and smiled. 

 

“There you are. Hungry?”

 

John nodded and let Thomas slip an arm around his shoulders as they stepped out into the Saturday morning sunlight. 

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John get's another perspective, on his troubles, and on what constitutes a lavish shopping trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes I know there's a lot more playwrights than I listed but I went with the easy ones. I have a mountain of research set aside for this and sadly very little at this point was centered around authors. That will however change as John finds, or tries to find, his footing in the theater community. 
> 
> as for Phantom, well, it was an amusingly easy pick and the kind of thing I find Thomas' dramatic self enjoying rather thoroughly. John may have outgrown the genre of musicals and found his home in dramatic theater and monologues but I like to think that everyone who ever enjoyed them still holds a musical or two close.
> 
> I am grateful for the patience in this, the plot is picking up it's pace and hopefully I will have more to offer soon. in the meantime 'm happy to chat about this fic on my tumblr- lupismaris.tumblr.com
> 
> regards,  
> cat

They didn’t take the subway like John had expected, Thomas instead taking them two blocks west to fifth avenue and turning them north through the fringes of Koreatown, weaving through the weekend tourists and New Yorkers running errands with ease. The hand he kept on John’s shoulder meant that John could let his eyes wander, knowing that if he stepped the wrong way, or lingered too long, Thomas would be able to gently nudge him in the proper direction. It was useful, when they passed 33rd street and John looked up to find the Empire State building towering over them like a beacon. 

 

“Ever been to the top?” John asked, as Thomas shepherded him across the street with a pack of jaywalkers. 

 

“The first day I arrived in the city.”

 

“Really?” 

 

Thomas looked up a the building over his shoulder. “I was here for a holiday from University. My first time in the city and all I wanted to do was climb to the top and see the chaos laid out beneath me.”

 

“Was it what you pictured?”

 

“No,” he admitted with a smile. “It was better in the end.”

 

As they passed 34th, Thomas pointed down the way to the hectic scene that was Herald Square and the Macy’s John had only seen in movies. He told John about the window displays that were due at the end of November when they passed Lord and Taylor, crossing 39th. 

 

“And that,” Thomas said, nodding to a mammoth building up ahead as they stood on the corner of 40th. “Is where we are having brunch.”

 

John frowned, “You promised nothing fancy. Grecian Pillars and giant lions are fancy-”

 

Thomas laughed fondly and turned them left when they crossed the street, passing the building by. “That is the New York Library, pet. We will wander it’s halls after we eat.”

 

Bryant Park lay before them, tucked behind the library, a small but glorious display of autumn colors in the warm October sunlight. Against the back of the museum sat an ivy covered restaurant, the grounds in front of it a sea of little tables for two. It still looked nicer than John felt comfortable with, but the hostess greeted Thomas by name and showed them to a table before he could protest.

 

“I said this was my treat,” Thomas reminded him. “So you can stop squirming. This is supposed to be fun.”

 

“And you promised nothing fancy.”

 

“To be fair, John, there’s very few places in New York were brunch is considered casual.”

 

“Brunch for the rest of us is reheated leftovers and screwdrivers. With the nice orange juice if we’re feeling fancy,” John said as the waitress brought them water and a pot of coffee. He was relieved when she laughed softly in agreement. 

 

“Oof I haven’t had a screwdriver since uni,” Thomas said, shivering with a grimace at the memory. 

 

“Yeah you seem the mimosa type.”

 

“Oi, if a place has bottomless Mimosas I’m going to indulge like the all american desperate housewife I am at heart.” Thomas beamed at the waitress. “Forgive us we’re going to be a tad insufferable I’m afraid.”

 

“Hardly. What can I get for you both?” 

 

Thomas ordered the basket of pastries to share and the Mediterranean Breakfast, without looking at the menu in front of him. John half expected to break out in hives if he looked at the prices on the delicate laminated sheet, so he just handed it to the waitress and said he’d take the same. 

 

“Nothing to drink besides coffee?”

 

“No not yet,” Thomas said, “but it is still early so we shall see.”

 

“Have what you like,” John told him, finishing his first cup of coffee and reaching for the pot to refill it. “I’m down for the count with booze today.”

 

“Yes, a bender can do that.” Thomas sipped his own coffee, moving his sunglasses to the top of his tousled blond hair as he sat back in his seat. John wondered if it took a lot of effort to look effortless the way he did. 

 

John nodded, looking out over the park for a moment. It was framed in thick rows of trees, most gilded in red and orange leaves, a few pines resilient to the change in seasons. The lawn in the center was dotted with couples and groups of friends on picnic blankets, a few solitary readers with their books stretched out on the grass with backpacks as pillows. It was peaceful.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Thomas asked, when John said nothing. 

 

John looked back at him, unsure of it all. “It’s… Embarrassing.”

 

“I’m almost certain I have witnessed worse falls from grace than whatever you went through this week, John.” Thomas propped his chin up on his hand, watching him. “I promise to listen, all biases aside.”

 

John took a slow breath and finished his second cup of coffee.

 

He told Thomas everything that had happened with Hornigold- How they had met, John’s hopes for the workshop, the cruelties written out in bitter red ink. Once he started talking it seemed impossible to stop, his words spilling out on the crisp white table cloth between them like an upturned bowl until there was nothing left in him.

 

True to his word Thomas stayed silent, listening with the same careful intent he’d offered John on Sunday over dim sum and white wine. He didn’t even speak when the waitress returned with their food, only smiling up at her with thanks when John paused for breath. 

 

Only when John had finished, and had been silent for a few minutes, his eyes fixed on the colorful spread in front of him, did he speak up.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, and John desperately hoped the sincerity in his voice was genuine. “I’m- unbearably sorry, that you had to stomach that, John.”

 

“Yeah- It,” John sighed. “It isn’t the first time my work has basically been set on fire in front of me but-”

 

“But this wasn’t your work. This was you he was attacking. And that’s a very different thing.” 

 

John looked up at him, a little surprised at how easily he had summed up the damage done. 

 

Thomas was watching him carefully, his dark blue eyes framed by thin lines of worry. In the sunlight John could see the way his blonde hair was streaked with strands of silver, his sideburns and faint weekend scruff grayest of all. It suited him, John thought.

 

“Your work, in this instance,” Thomas continued after a moment, “was a reflection of yourself. If he’d told you to choose different words or clean up your grammar that would be criticizing your work, or to turn a monologue into a dialogue for example. But what he was asking was that you… erase yourself from your own narrative.” John watched the muscle in his jaw clench and his brow furrow. “Which is really no more than a blatant attack on you, your experience, and your spirit.”

 

“I… yeah I guess you’re right.”

 

“Which means you had every goddamn right to tell him to choke.” Thomas added. “God, I’m surprised you didn’t hit him with a chair or something. I would have, in your place.”

 

“You’d be picking me up from holding if I had.”

 

“This is true but- no you’re right, hitting him with a chair would have made him the victim. You probably handled it in the best way possible.” Thomas sighed, and waved down the waitress as she passed, asking for two glasses of champagne.

 

“Champagne at noon? Really?” John asked.

 

“Really. This deserves a toast.”

 

“For what? My humiliation?”

 

“Your bravery.”

 

John blinked, staring at him perplexed. “Bravery? Thomas- I wasn’t brave I was- a fucking idiot, if anything!”

 

“I don’t see it that way. I see what you did as an act of rebellion, something brave, even if it felt crazy at the time-”

 

When John scoffed Thomas sat forward, leaning across the table and forcing John to hold his gaze.

 

“I’m serious,” he said firmly and John felt pinned in place by his eyes, his tone. 

“John you looked the everyday devil in the eye and told him to go fuck himself, knowing full well the risk it put you in. That is what you did that night. You defended yourself, and everyone like you, against a bigot who’s been allowed to do whatever the hell he’s wanted all these years. So what, you screamed at him instead of starting a riot, so what if you had no witnesses, so what if it was centered entirely around a the subject of representation- that doesn’t negate what you did and what it meant.”

 

“And then I went home and drank myself into a stupor,” John argued. 

 

“And emerged the next day,” Thomas shot back. “With your heart still beating and your mind clear and another scar on your back to remind you how far you’ve come.”

 

They stared at each other as the waitress delivered their champagne and took away the empty coffee pot and plates. John wanted to argue, wanted to resort to the self deprecation that had kept him safe all these years, that had kept him under the radar and saved him from the ridicule of the world. The self deprecation brought on by his recovery, by the world at large telling him he’d never amount to anything the way he was. He wanted to balance it with his clever con man smile and talk it all away as if it was nothing more than a moment of melodrama where his professional demeanor had failed him.

 

Because, in a realistic sense, that’s what had happened. An industry professional had given him criticism and he had reacted like a slighted child. That’s how Hornigold no doubt saw it, that was no doubt he story he was sharing with his associates and those in his working circle. 

 

Time and again John had bowed to it, to the story told by others, and made himself fit the narrative. Part of him felt he should do it again.

 

But Thomas held his gaze, forcing him to hold it in return, keeping him from retreating behind his defenses. The transparent feeling John had encountered at the party returned and he felt as if all his secrets, every scar, every misery, were on display for those damning blue eyes to see. 

 

It terrified him. 

 

Slowly Thomas reached forward, taking John’s left hand where it rested on the table. His fingers were calloused, to John’s surprise, his touch delicate until he realized John wasn’t going to recoil from him. He threaded their fingers together and held on tight, squeezing gently to get John’s attention back on his face. 

 

“That in itself is an act of bravery, John,” Thomas told him softly. “For people like us? Our very existence, the sole fact we wake up each morning and even try, is our own personal revolution. No matter how small and insignificant it may feel. It matters. It will always matter.”

 

The park around them fell away as he spoke, until the entirety of the universe seemed fixed on them. John heard nothing, saw nothing, but the man sitting in front of him. For a moment he didn’t even feel the light breeze on his neck or the warmth of the sun through his sweater. All he could feel was the raw ache in his chest that came with facing the truth, the faint sting of salt in the corners of his eyes, and the soft press of Thomas’ hand against his.

 

“I want you to remember that, John,” Thomas said, and the corners of his mouth twisted up into a smile so soft John thought he felt his heart break from it. “And if you can’t remember it, I will always do my best to remind you of it.”

 

“With champagne at noon?” John managed, his voice cracking under the effort of sarcasm. 

 

Thomas blinked, and the smile on his face brightened like the sun.

 

“If that’s what it takes, darling,” he said, that same sunlight in his eyes, and John thought that maybe he finally understood what drew Icarus through the clouds.

 

Thomas squeezed his hand again, before taking up his champagne flute in his free hand and waiting until John did the same.

 

“To you.” Thomas said. “And your one man revolution.”

 

Somehow, as John knocked his glass against Thomas’ and downed the champagne, it didn’t feel quite like a one man revolution anymore. Over the years he’d had his sister, he’d had the rangers as best they could manage, but he’d always assumed he was still a solitary creature. Suddenly, it almost felt like he finally, after over a decade of facing the world almost entirely by himself, had someone standing alongside him-

 

Even if that someone was an insufferable rich bastard who didn’t understand the concept of casual dining to save his life-

 

John was grateful, down to his rotten, damaged core. 

 

As promised, Thomas took him through the library after they finished eating. He let John gape in awe at the vaulted stone ceilings and grand chandeliers of the entry way, at the frescos looking down on them in the upstairs rotunda, framed by rich dark wood carved with such ornate care. And for added measure, Thomas handed him his old library card and let him loose amongst the stacks upon stacks of poetry and plays, refusing to hear any of John’s hushed arguments. He didn’t even question it, when an hour later, John reemerged with a stack of books. Thomas simply bought a tote from the gift shop and offered to carry them. 

 

By two they had stepped back onto Fifth avenue and John felt his phone start buzzing in his pocket.

 

“Is it Rackham?” Thomas asked when John groaned.

 

“Unfortunately.”

 

“Here, let me-” Thomas said, swiping the phone and answering in so posh and ridiculous an accent that John nearly choked. “Buckingham palace. His Royal Disgrace speaking.”

 

The strangled sound Jack made on the other line was wildly satisfying over speaker phone. John hid his face in his sweater to stifle his laughter. 

 

“Uh- John?” Jack asked after a moment, no doubt checking his phone to make sure he’d dialed the right person.

 

“I’m sorry- do you refer to John as His Royal Disgrace? Jesus Rackham no wonder he’s not talking to you.”

 

John laughed as Jack scrambled for words. 

 

“McGraw?” he croaked.

 

“The very same, how are you darling?” Thomas said, slinging his arm across John’s shoulders again as they descended the stairs

 

“Uh- I think the term flabbergasted might very well apply if there was a variant that involved profanity.”

 

“Fucking Flabbergasted,” John offered. “You get alliteration at least.”

 

“John what the fuck? I’ve been calling you since yesterday!” Jack snapped.

 

“I know.”

 

“Then why the fuck haven’t you picked up?”

 

“I was busy. You know I was at a workshop Jack. You are also not my mother so I’m not technically required to answer every time you call.”

 

“Max said you quit the workshop on Thursday,” Jack said. “That’s what you told her. We expected you back in Weehawken.”

 

John sighed. “I’ll be coming back soon. I just figured I may as well make good of the hotel room I already paid for. Be a tourist for the weekend.”

 

Jack grumbled on the other line, which meant John was going to avoid the argument he’d had prepared. “Fine. Fine, have it your way. I’m off in an hour, let’s grab drinks when you finish with McGraw.”

 

“Uh-” John looked up at Thomas, who was still holding the phone and looking entirely unimpressed with it all. 

 

Thomas hit mute for a moment. “I am more than happy to be your scapegoat,” he said.

 

“John?” Jack said over the line and Thomas unmuted the line.

 

“Actually Jack I’ve got dinner plans.” John held Thomas’ gaze as he spoke. “Thomas mentioned seeing a few sights, I took him up on it. I’m-”

 

“Are you sure?” Jack asked and already John knew what it meant if he said yes. It’d mean more and more interrogation and meddling when he finally faced Jack in person.

 

“Yea. I’m gonna be awhile, Jack.” John said and Thomas smiled in a way that made John’s pulse skip.

 

“... Alright. Anne and I will grab drinks by our lonesome. Just… answer your phone the next time alright? So I don’t file a fucking Missing Persons on your ass.”

 

“Not to worry, Rackham, I’ll keep an eye on him,” Thomas said and Jack scoffed.

 

“That’s what I’m mildly afraid of. Keep him in one piece, please.”

 

“Scouts honor.”

 

“You would be the worst scout in the history of the organization,” Jack said before promptly hanging up.

 

“Well he isn’t wrong,” Thomas agreed, passing the phone back to John. “I grew up in a library not on a football pitch.”

 

“You don’t have to babysit me all day, I’m sure you’ve got more important things to do,” John said, even as Thomas guided him back onto the sidewalk and turned them north. 

 

“Nonsense. We are celebrating and I am taking the day to play tourguide. There is nothing I would rather be doing.” Thomas said firmly. “Except maybe some shopping. But that is something I can drag you along for.”

 

“I grew up with Max, I’m told I’m a reasonable shopping companion,” John offered.

 

“Excellent.” Thomas squeezed his shoulders as they waited to cross the street. “Then let us say hello to Mr. Rockefeller and take a turn through Saks and see what trouble we can find.”

 

Trouble was found in the nearly twenty city blocks that stood between the New York Public Library on the edge of 42nd and the fringes of Central Park on 59th, with a few extra blocks east and west of it thrown in. Max had told him about Fifth Avenue at Christmas, about her hours spent window shopping at the dozens of luxury boutiques and flagships stores. John had always known he could never afford any of the madness within their gilded doors and was content, when he arrived in the City, knowing he’d probably just meander up Fifth in order to get to Central Park and not once stop to linger at a store front.

 

And then Thomas had come crashing into his life with more money than common sense and John was begin dragged into shop after shop as if he belonged there. He lost count of how many thresholds they stepped over, how many sale associates they talked too, how many dressing rooms Thomas gently nudged him into to try on one item of clothing or another. 

 

The first store hadn’t even had price tags on their clothes. John had let Thomas talk him into the dressing room with a few cashmere turtlenecks and John had to take a moment to avoid hyperventilating at the concept of one shirt being so expensive that a price tag was irrelevant. 

 

After that he had just held on tight and followed Thomas dutifully wherever he led, even if it meant forty minutes in Saks trying on half a dozen suits while Thomas chatted with the tailor on staff. 

 

They grabbed a very late lunch at the Oyster Bar at Grand Central around five, shopping bags clustered at their feet, the rest set to be delivered at whatever time and date Thomas had requested. John sent Max a few photos he’d taken through the day, smiling at her replies and how they shared his shock at the absurdities of high end retail. 

 

_ Did he buy you anything? _ She asked.

 

**If he has he hasn’t said anything** . 

 

_ I’m crossing every goddamn finger and toe that every single one of those bags are shit for you. _

 

**Fuck off.** John replied, and accepted the gin cocktail Thomas offered to share with him. Though he couldn’t help wonder what he’d do if in fact some of the bags were for him. Probably puke, he reasoned. 

 

When they finished, he didn’t think twice about following Thomas to the subway and back to the upper east side. Sure, maybe it was odd, kicking off his boots in the foyer of the brownstone when he should have been on his way back to his lonely hotel room.

 

But Thomas wasn’t sending him away and John, after everything, didn’t have the heart to face his loneliness just yet. 

 

Thomas’ purchases were left in his bedroom, the tote of library books by the front door with John’s shoes so he wouldn’t forget it. 

 

“James should be leaving the museum soon. I’d say we go surprise him but we’d just end up sitting on the steps until he remembered the world outside of his studio existed,” Thomas said, dropping into an armchair in the living room as John settled onto the couch. Shakespeare curled up next to him.

 

“I still have trouble picturing him working at a place like the Met,” John admitted, petting the cat’s fur.

 

“He doesn’t spend much time on the museum floor while they’re opened. He’d probably strangle a few dozen guests every day if he did.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“He has opinions,” Thomas said with a grimace. “A lot of them.”

 

“Well, that’s hardly a surprise. So he hides in the offices instead?”

 

“More or less. Works on keeping the paintings in good condition, overseeing deliveries from other collections, helping visiting artists set up their exhibits. He… prefers the backdrop, being able to conduct the chaos instead of telling people about it.”

 

It was a contradiction to what John had seen, but then James had almost always been in Thomas’ presence and left all the conducting to his husband. Though John didn’t see how anyone could take charge when Thomas was in the room. The man exuded a sense of casual control that even John, who always did his best to fuck with authority when it presented itself, didn’t feel like challenging. Even as they were, Thomas reclined in his armchair with Marlowe purring away on his lap, a tired smile on his face, he reminded John of some lord in an austen novel, waiting to give an order to the valet.

 

“I’m sure he’d be happy to show you around,” Thomas said. “James is often shy about his work but when he gets going you can really see how much he loves it.”

 

“I’ve never been to the Met,” John admitted. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

 

“Well if you were to drag his freckled ass to a broadway show I’m sure he’d be in a similar position. The man may have an appreciation for music but I’ve never been able to successfully get into into a single theater.”

 

“Well musicals aren’t for everyone. He seems to know his plays pretty well.”

 

“He reads them. Hasn’t ever seen one performed on stage but could probably recite the entirety of Hamlet if prompted.”

 

John rolled his eyes. “That’s not hard.”

 

Thomas raised his eyebrows. “I’ve never met another person who could.”

 

It was just past six and John was pleasantly worn out from the day, his usual defenses left behind hours earlier. He watched Thomas for a moment, or seemed to, as he sorted through his mental library for the words he needed. 

 

“O, that this too too solid flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew,” he began. “Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd his canon 'gainst self-slaughter.”

 

A slow smile worked it’s way across Thomas’ face as John continued the soliloquy. 

 

“O God- God! How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, seem to me all the uses of this world!” John waved a hand. “I could go on. It’s the first one you learn in drama class half the time.”

 

“Alright. Macbeth.”

 

John rolled his eyes. “The raven himself is hoarse that croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan under my battlements. Come, you spirits, that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst cruelty.” 

 

“Much Ado,” Thomas said.

 

“ Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be overmastered with a pierce of valiant dust? To make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl?”

 

Thomas laughed, utterly delighted and John felt a swell of subtle pride. “Do you know them all?”

 

“Almost.”

 

“You said earlier, when you told me about the workshop, that you’d never taken a real drama class.”

 

John shrugged. “Couldn’t afford to.”

 

“So you memorized them on your own?”

 

“I’d sit in the library for hours, reading and rereading until I could recite them. And then, once Shakespeare was finished, came Marlowe, then Sondheim, then Rogers and Hammerstein. Then whatever else I could get my hands on, whatever the public library had really.”

 

“You- John you are an absolute marvel. No, truly I’ve never met anyone who’s had that kind of dedication- or that capacity for words, and I’m a fucking lawyer of all things.”

 

John shrugged it off, or tried to. But he could feel his face turning red at the praise. “Its just practice, and time. I… didn’t exactly have much in the way of prospects back then so it was just something to do.”

 

“When you told me about the monologues I thought you were a theater junkie in the sense of plays not musicals.”

 

“I like both, both have their roles. But…”

 

“But?” Thomas prompted.

 

“Musicals were where it started,” John said softly, picking at the hem of his sweater. “I watched Hello Dolly on a shitty old TV one night by myself.” 

 

“Barbra Streisand?”

 

John nodded. “Its- Its a fucking ridiculous musical, the story is obnoxious and unrealistic but-” he shrugged again. “I was hooked the moment they started singing about dressing up in their finery.”

 

“How old were you?”

 

“Six.”

 

“You were home alone?” Thomas asked and John didn’t miss the shock that laced the question.

 

“No, it was my social worker’s office. She was busy meeting with potential foster parents,” John didn’t look up. “It wasn’t like there was much choice, her secretary wasn’t a babysitter after all.”

 

He couldn’t remember the last time he had admitted to his childhood circumstances out loud. At Brunch he’d made it sound as if the story from his monologue had only been half his, that he’d been the lonely queer kid and a friend had been the one with a disability, the one from an incomplete home. 

 

Maybe he wanted to test Thomas’ resolve from earlier. Maybe he wanted to see if he’d recoil at how different they were, and take back his promise of reassurance.

 

“I see,” Thomas said. “I know I sounded surprised- we just always had some kind of keeper, my brother and I, when we were boys.”

 

“Yeah well, you grew up rich didn’t you? That sounds like the kinda shit rich kids deal with.”

 

Thomas nodded, his smile twisted with a touch of bitterness. “It is.”

 

“Its- look when I met you I honestly expected to get shat on for being poor. You’d hardly be the first and it seems like such a beloved pastime of trust fund kids.” John said frankly.

 

“I try to not be so predictable. I like to think I’m capable of some understanding, despite the privilege.”

 

“But its not like- I mean when you think foster care you probably think of some shitty tv shows right?” John shrugged. “It’s not the kind of thing you just understand unless you’ve been there ya know?”

 

Thomas shrugged a shoulder. “No, I don’t know. But I believe you. And while I may not really know a goddamn thing about such an upbringing I will own that. You won’t find me talking out my ass about the struggles you faced as if they were my own.”

 

“Oh no, not when you had your own rich kid problems. Let me guess you even got sent off to boarding school,” John said, trying to make a joke. But when Thomas just offered that same bitter smile he winced. “Wait seriously? That’s a thing?”

 

“Depends on the family. We got shipped off at eleven.”

 

“Fuckin’ christ… What are your parents like?” John asked. He’d always wondered, if the rich kids had parents that loved them, when he and Max and Solomon hadn’t gotten anything until Maple.

 

“Dead.”

 

John watched as he fidgeted nervously, twisting his wedding ring until he sighed.

 

“I’m sorry that was a bit melodramatic an answer wasn’t it?” He huffed a weak laugh. “Mum died while we were at school. Barely knew her.”

 

“Your dad?”

 

“Mr. Hamilton died six years ago.” Thomas glanced up and between the distant look in his eyes and the careful choice of his words, John knew everything he needed to about the esteemed Hamilton Family.

 

“I’m- sorry?” John offered.

 

“I’m not.”

 

The sharp smile and momentary cold glint in Thomas’ eyes had John staring in silence. He wondered if this was the man people faced in the courtroom rather the warm and lively creature he’d come to know.

 

If it was, he didn’t envy the people who found themselves on the opposition, not when so momentary a glimpse sent a shiver running down his spine. 

 

“One day perhaps, and very likely after several drinks” Thomas said eventually. “I will tell you why. But it’s so morbid a topic to end our day on.”

 

“Day’s not over yet,” John said. “It’s not even seven.”

 

It made Thomas laugh, albeit softly. “This is true.” 

 

He stood, Marlowe grumbling at being dislodged from his lap, and stretched, before going to the bar cart by the window. John watched him fetch a bottle of wine and two glasses before returning to his seat. 

 

“So tell me,” he said, pouring each of them a glass. “Musicals. It all began there and yet the work in your portfolio seems so-”

 

“Boring?” John offered.

 

“Different, from the kind of work often produced by those devoted to the musical theater genre,” Thomas finished, passing him a glass. “I wonder where and why the transition occurred.”

 

John stared at his drink a moment before draining half the glass. Fuck it, he thought, if Thomas hadn’t read into his explanation from earlier then he may as well be plain about it. And fair seemed fair, what with Thomas being so frank with him.

 

“I half told you earlier,” John said, still staring at his drink. “When we were talking about the monologues this morning.”

 

“Which part?” Thomas asked. “The part about forgetting how to dance? That was the line wasn’t it-”

 

“It was yeah.” John still wasn’t sure of the delivery he’d written, even so many drafts in. Part of him wanted it to be raw and uncomfortable, bordering on painful, forcing the audience to face it. Part of him wanted to make it poetic, telling a story about a boy who’d forgotten how to dance, instead of what had really happened.

 

“John?’ Thomas asked softly, watching him as he sat in silence and tried to swallow his fear.

 

He finished his wine and set the glass on the coffee table in front of him. It didn’t take much to tug off his left sock and roll up the leg of his jeans, the plastic and metal of his prosthetic leg unmistakable.

 

“It’s one thing, learning to sing and dance at six years old,” he said, trying not to squirm under the weight of Thomas’ gaze. “And another to relearn it at twenty when you don’t know how many more surgeries are gonna follow the first.”

 

John waited, in the looming silence, for the pity or disgust that usually followed someone’s first glimpse of his prosthetic. Pity was the most common, people suddenly looking at him like some saintly cripple who needed to be coddled. Others, though they tried to be subtle, would recoil.

 

Thomas did neither. He sat there, eyes moving here and there as he took it all in, wine glass untouched in his hand. 

 

“Car accident?” he asked finally. 

 

John nodded. “Yeah.” 

 

“I’d say I’m sorry but I’m afraid it’d come across as pity rather than genuine feeling,” Thomas said, refilling John’s glass.

 

“It usually does but-”

 

Thomas glanced up at him as he sat back.

 

“But not from you.” John managed a smile, as the bitter taste in his mouth started to fade.

 

Thomas returned the smile, getting up from the chair to instead sit on the opposite end of the couch. 

 

“Ever thought of trying again?” he asked.

 

“Trying what?”

 

“Relearning how to dance.”

 

John snorted and sipped his wine. “Sometimes. Usually after three drinks too many. Which-” he held up a hand as Thomas opened his mouth. “Does not mean you can get up and grab another bottle.”

 

“I wasn’t going to!”

 

“Oh please I saw the thought cross your mind-”

 

“I-” Thomas argued, tucking his long legs under him. “Was going to ask what song always made you think about dancing again, sir.”

 

“What, one particular song?” John made a face. “Thats- fuck I don’t even-”

 

“Oh come on now, there’s got to be that one song that the moment you hear it you think about the possibility, more so than any other.”

 

John sat there, sorting through song after song with his glass halfway to his mouth.

 

He did have that one song. But it felt like too much, even with all the half truths he had already told. So he went for a more cliched answer, a safer answer.

 

“Don’t laugh-”

 

Thomas crossed his heart.

 

“But sometimes when I’ve got the Phantom Soundtrack on- Masquerade does strike up the urge. It’s hard to not get caught up in the operatic energy of it I guess.” John mumbled, before finally taking a drink. “But there’s easily a few dozen that do the same.”

 

“I’ll take your word for it.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’ve never seen Phantom. In any form,” Thomas admitted and John balked at him.

 

“What?”

 

Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know I just- I didn’t get into musicals until High school and it just never- I never found myself watching it! I’ve heard a few songs but I’ve never-”

 

“How? How have you, as- as camp and dramatic as you are sometimes-” 

 

Thomas curled in on himself with laughter as John’s voice cracked with sheer disbelief.

 

“Of everything Weber has ever fucking created I mean- That is the only musical that seems entirely like it’d be your thing,” John didn’t know why he was having so much trouble accepting it. Maybe because everything he’d seen of Thomas since they met had exuded the same chaotic, sequined covered energy that the musical was legendary for. He could even see him, in the pristine tuxedo and cape the phantom often wore, as if he’d been made to wear it.

 

Thomas smiled sheepishly at him, blue eyes glittering with honest amusement at John’s shock. “I feel as if I’ve horribly disappointed you.”

 

“It just- it’s fucking baffling. Even James has seen the film!”

 

“Tell you what,” Thomas said. “If you would continue to grace me with your marvelous company, I will correct my misdeeds, and we can watch it together over dinner.”

 

John hadn’t sat down to watch the production in years, despite the soundtrack sitting happily on his phone. “The 25th anniversary special is online.”

 

Thomas beamed. “I’ll order dinner. You like Indian?”

 

John did.

 

They waited until the food was delivered before they settled in, sitting next to each other rather than at opposite ends of the couch. Thomas texted James to tell him dinner was waiting for when he got home, and refilled both of their glasses as John pulled up the film. 

 

As he’d hoped, Thomas was riveted from the moment the overture began, eyes wide and fixed on the screen as the story unfolded. His attention didn’t leave the TV for a moment, not even to set aside his plate or grab the bottle of wine to pour each of them another drink. He did it all with his eyes fixed reverently on the screen. 

 

John watched him as much as he watched the screen, feeling a touch of pride, of warm satisfaction at being able to share something he loved with someone, at being able to witness such a first. He remembered the first time he’d heard Michael Crawford’s voice, on cd borrowed from the library, scratched and fumbled but no less overwhelming. 

 

Thomas emptied the bottle of wine into their glasses as John set aside his plate, and went so far as to hook his arm around John’s shoulders. John didn’t stop him. He was sated, warm and content. Thomas didn’t even glance at him when he did it, and John wondered if it was just habit for him, to sling his arm around James’ shoulders in the same way, while they curled together at night. 

 

John hadn’t really experienced it before, being the one tucked into someone’s side.

 

It was nice.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John really needs to stop making a habit of spending the night at the Brownstone, or else he might end up seeing something he isn't entirely prepared for. 
> 
> Oh well, too late for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LETS EARN THAT E RATING FOLKS
> 
> there's actually plot alongside the fun i promise, just small amounts of plot AND I finally makes good on the whole, well sugar daddy thing.
> 
> Sorry for the delay in posting, work has been getting steadily more obnoxious as we reach the holiday season but I will continue to try and get this wrapped up and posted at regular intervals.
> 
> have fun be safe and if you're in the USA i hope you voted

Somewhere along the way John fell asleep. He must have- one second he was watching the spectacle that was the Phantom performing in the opera he wrote and the next he was being carefully roused by James.

 

He blinked up at him, still half asleep. He was warm, with wine and curry, Thomas’ arm still snug around him, unmoving which meant he too had dozed off. John could hear the end credits and applause on the tv.

 

“Hey kid,” James said softly. He lifted Thomas’s arm, carefully pulling John out from under it. 

 

“Hey,” John managed, as Thomas tipped over onto the cushions without John to hold him up, curling up in the corner of the couch, murmuring in his sleep. “When did you get in?”

 

“Just now. Cmon, bedtime,” James said. 

 

“What about Thomas?” John mumbled.

 

“I can only carry one of you at a time I’m afraid,” James said, scoping John up with surprising ease.

 

John let out a startled noise, dizzy with wine and sleep, grabbing James by the shoulders as he started walking.

 

“I’ve got you-” He heard James say, as he was carried through the hall and up the dimly lit stairs to the third floor.

 

“I know,” John said softly, his voice slurring just enough to be noticeable. God he was going to feel those last glasses in the morning he was sure. He grumbled softly, rubbing his face against the t-shirt James’ was wearing, making James chuckle. Then he made a discontented noise and James stopped.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

John tried to sit up, grumbling like a child, lifting his left leg high enough so that he could fumble with his pros, trying to remove it before he fell asleep again. James shifted his hold on him and John felt it move, clattering to the floor.

 

“Huh.” he heard James say.

 

He wasn’t listening. The wine told him to settle, to curl into James’ chest and let himself be carried, to enjoy the warmth and the lingering smell of James’ cologne. He made a soft sound when James held him tighter, and they were moving again. 

 

“Thank you,” he mumbled when they reached the top of the stairs.

 

“Hush,” James said.

 

“No, I didn’t- I didn’t thank you-” John rubbed his face against the soft fabric of his shirt again, frustrated at how difficult it was to find words.

 

“Thank me for what?” James asked and John heard him kick a door open.

 

“For saying I’d be okay. For- For giving a shit. No one else- no one else did.”

 

It seemed so important now, nearly drunk and exhausted it seemed more important than anything that John tell him how much it meant, those simple words, the predawn text messages John had clung to. 

 

He felt James hum, felt the reverb of it in his chest. Then he was being set down on a bed and James was leaning over him, half illuminated by the light from the window. In John’s hazy vision he seemed almost ethereal, the light pale on his skin, catching his eyes in streaks of green and gray, making his hair seem like a veil as it fell from it’s tie.

 

John reached for him and James took his hand.

 

“Thank you,” John said again.

 

James gave his hand a squeeze, and in the light John could almost see his smile. 

 

“Get some sleep John,” He said. 

 

John stared up at him a moment longer, desperate to remember it in the morning. He watched James slip away, blurred as his eyes closed, and drifted off as he was told.

 

In the morning John woke up with a groan, the beginnings of a headache kicking up a fit in his temples. He blinked at the sunlight coming through the drapes, his face pressed into the pillow. It was bright, the kind of sunlight that meant it was probably well past breakfast. Out of the one eye not pressed into the pillow he could see the familiar trappings of the brownstone’s guest room, though he didn’t remember how he wound up there. 

 

He remembered the couch, remembered watching the show with Thomas, and distantly remembered the smell of cologne and the feeling of warmth. But that was all. 

 

John heard footsteps in the hall and closed his eyes when the door to his room opened. He felt the bed dip slightly and heard the questioning meow from one of the cats as they walked across the bed to see if he was awake.

 

“Hush Billiam-” it was James and John risked opening his eye just enough to see.

 

He was shirtless, tattoos and freckles on glorious display, his hair in disarray from sleep, sweatpants slung low on his hips. John, still warm and groggy with sleep and aching from the hangover, felt his stomach tighten, twisting into a knot that burned for a moment. James looked like a dream and John felt himself crave, even as Shakespeare batted at his curls and tried to wake him.

 

James crossed the room, coffee and plate of breakfast in hand. He set them down on the little desk by the window, and John caught sight of a little bottle of painkillers on the breakfast plate. He snorted despite himself and winced when it caught James’ attention.

 

“Good morning,” James said, a wry, bitterly amused smile on his face.

 

“Fuck off.” John grumbled, burying his face in the pillow as he heard James laugh. “God your husband is a fucking bastard-”

 

“If it makes you feel any better he’s hungover too,” James said. John heard him pick up the bottle of pills, its contents rattling as he opened it.

 

“Here.”

 

John grumbled and turned his head, glaring up at James with one eye. James watched him, coffee in one hand and pills in the other, until John sighed and slowly sat up. Its wasn’t as bad as his hangover had been on Friday. Where that had been unbearable misery on all sensory fronts, this just felt like a faint echo, a headache from too many hours staring at his laptop and not enough food.

 

“What time is it?” he asked.

 

“A bit past eleven. Thomas is still sleeping his off, if you want to do the same,” James said. 

 

“You probably think this is fucking hilarious, don’t you,” John muttered. But James was watching him carefully and John suppressed a shiver at the attention. He was still in his clothes from the day before, his hair felt greasy and wild, the lingering taste of wine on his tongue even as he sipped his coffee. Next to James he felt ridiculous.

 

“Only a little,” James said. “I’ll admit, I didn’t expect to come home and find you two cuddling on the couch.”

 

John froze. There wasn’t anger in his tone, or if there was, it was so muted that John missed it. He glanced up at James, wary, ready to be yelled at, at least. Ready to be thrown out at worst.

 

“Uh-” he tried to find some kind of explanation. “I- I didn’t-”

 

“I’m not angry, John,” James said.

 

“You’re not?”

 

“Why would I be?”

 

“Because… he’s your husband?” John asked though he wasn’t confident in the question, not with the faint smile on James’ face, the curious amusement in his eyes. If James were anyone else, John figured, he’d be furious.

 

James’ smile grew a fraction for a moment, and he scooped Shakespeare up off the bed.

 

“Thomas told me you recited Hamlet and Much Ado without any trouble at all,” he said, and John frowned at him, watching as James took a few slow steps backwards towards the door. 

 

“If you can remember that,” He said, “then I’m sure you can remember our little story from the other night.” And with that he crossed the threshold, closing the door behind him with a parting- “it’s sunday, sleep it off, kid.”

 

John stared at the door for a good long moment, coffee cup in hand.

 

“What. The fuck-” he said to the empty room. Silence answered him and all John could do was sigh, staring at his coffee as if it held some kind of wisdom. 

 

It didn’t.

 

John ate the eggs and toast James’ had brought him and polished off the coffee, before settling back down to try and get a little more sleep. He didn’t have anything better to do, and if he was lucky, within an hour the headache would be gone or at the very least under control.

 

Just as he was beginning to doze off he turned his head on the pillow, looking at the other side of the room there the bathroom door sat.

 

On the door hung another dry cleaning bag, with new clothes John hadn’t seen before. A piece of paper was attached and John knew without bothering to get up that it’d be a note from Thomas most likely, offering the clothes with some kind of clever explanation.

 

While that startled him, it didn’t twist up his insides the way the sight of his prosthetic did. It was propped up carefully next to the door, easily accessible when John got up, just the way John himself would have placed it if he’d taken himself to bed.

 

As he stared at it, He slowly remembered how he’d found his way to bed-

 

Or rather, how James had put him to bed like a child. How James had carried him so easily, and the thought made John’s stomach twist and burn all over again. How James had been so gentle with him, not even balking when John had half tossed his fucking leg onto the stairs like it was an item of clothing and not a limb. 

 

How he had looked in the light of the moon and the city lights glittering outside the window, leaning over John in such a way that John couldn’t help but-

 

But let his mind wander.

 

No.

 

No, he told himself, dropping back into the bed. 

 

“Absolutely not,” he said aloud for good measure.

 

But it seemed that like most things, his own body decided to ignore him, his mind conjuring each sensory revelation with vivid clarity. 

 

He could almost feel the phantom touches of James’ hands, one on his ribs, one on the back of his thigh, the solid warmth of him pressed against his left side as he’d been carried.  And christ John had joked about James being able to lift him easily but actually being carted around like a feather was a whole other revelation he hadn’t been ready for.

 

“Oh fuck me-” he groaned, hiding is face in his hands, remembering the way James’ cologne had roused him, the scent of cedar and tobacco and sage, something almost aquatic clinging to the thin fabric of his t-shirt-

 

That John had rubbed his face against like a cat.

 

John let out a soft wail, wanting to shrivel up and die just as much as his body seemed to want to follow the memories into something constructive. He took slow breaths, staring at the ceiling as he tried to recite Pygmalion in his head to distract himself.

 

It’d have worked too, if he hadn’t remembered the way Thomas had held him after dinner. So casual and warm, as if John was meant to be tucked up against his side.

 

No.

 

No John couldn’t face it. He couldn’t let himself run away with whatever it was his mind and his dick were trying to talk him into, especially not in their house, with the two phantoms of his misery just down the hall. 

 

He would not sink to that level.

 

Not yet anyway.

 

He counted backwards from thirty before rolling out of bed. The clock told him it was just past noon now. If he showered and dressed he could be out of their hair before Thomas woke up, before he lost the battle with his own conscience and started thinking about what it might feel like to-

 

“Fucks sake I said no-” John snapped at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He felt ridiculous, felt like he was going crazy from it all.

 

He needed to get some distance between him and the McGraws, before he did something horrifically stupid and ruined the one enjoyable part of his miserable goddamn life. 

 

By the time he finished his shower and pulled on the clothes left for him (the note had been from James this time, a short little “these are yours” written out with the letter J signed off, brokering no argument) John felt like he could at least thank them and say goodbye without making an ass of himself. The sweater was blue this time, a rich royal navy shade, v-neck and unbearably comfortable. The jeans were standard blue levi’s, but even then, they were nicer than the ten dollar jeans John always bought himself. And they fit, again, like a glove.

 

He was pulling his hair back into a bun when a thought occurred to him.

 

Thomas was hungover.

 

From, what, half a bottle of wine?

 

John had witnessed him easily drink nearly an entire bottle by himself on the previous Sunday and there’d been no sign at all of him being drunk or even tipsy, save for the flush in his cheeks. And even that could have been written off as exertion from walking and laughing and talking as much as he had.

 

Okay, John thought, maybe James had just told him a little white lie so John didn’t feel bad about taking a nap. That was fair, he told himself. That was reasonable. And maybe Thomas was hungover. Maybe curry and red wine were what fucked him over, where champagne and gin somehow didn’t. 

 

It didn’t matter. 

 

John was going to walk down the hall, say goodbye to James, thank him again, grab his things, and go back to his hotel. It was easy, straight forward, and hell, if John managed, he told himself, stepping as quietly into the hall as possible, he’d consider jacking off to the fantasies his head had tried to create for him.

 

He’d consider it, at least.

 

The hallway floors, like the bedrooms, were hardwood. But down the center of each stretched a long turkish carpet. John made his way down the hall almost silently thanks to the opulent nonsensical thing, internally thanking the flowers and ornate leaves beneath his feet. 

 

As he reached the far end of the hall he saw that the door to the McGraw’s bedroom was open and heard their voices, though they were in such hushed tones that John couldn’t make out what they were saying. Maybe Thomas really was hungover, if they were speaking so softly. Or maybe it was a migraine or something caused from too much work during the week. John could sympathize, as he paused a few feet from the door to take a slow, silent breath and gather his wits.

 

He’d knock on the door, announce himself, and say goodbye.

 

Easy enough.

 

He took another two or three steps and stopped again. He could hear pieces of what they were saying now and his curiosity got the better of him.

 

“You know I have to go-” that was Thomas his tone regretful as he murmured softly. 

 

John could picture him toying with James’ long hair, or maybe his head was in James’ lap as they talked, freckled, tattooed fingers carding through graying blonde strands. He shook himself, trying to reign in his imagination before it got out of hand. 

 

“You don’t have to. Someone else could go-” that was James’ soft, almost whiny reply.

 

“The client needs me in Washington, beloved. It’s only for a day or two-” Thomas again, such weighty endearments could only be from him. “Besides I’m sure you-”

 

John went still at the soft sound that cut him off. It was too soft to tell which of them made it, a kind of whimpering that John instinctively associated with pain. He knew he made plenty of pitiful sounds when he wasn’t well.

 

He heard it again, followed by a soft hum as Thomas continued to speak.

 

“I’m sure you’ll have plenty of company while I’m gone,” he said and John was surprised at the edge to his voice.

 

“Not-” James took a breath. “Not sure what you’re talking about-”

 

There was the whimper again, a broken sound that almost had John worried.

 

Except it was followed by a low throaty moan and a sharp curse, the telltale creak of the bed echoing it.

 

Oh.

 

Oh no.

 

No, he had made a mistake. A crucial mistake in trying to say goodbye. He should have just fled the house and texted them whatever he wanted to say. They were a goddamn married couple, of course they’d spend their lazy sunday mornings in bed doing-

 

John couldn’t let himself think about it. No, no if he did he’d be undone where he stood. He needed to leave, needed to pack his wits right back up and flee down the hall and out the front door before they noticed he was gone.

 

Another moan met his ears and John knew in his core that it was James making that sound, making the hitched, broken noise that followed. 

 

“That’s it,” came Thomas’ voice after another broken sound and John took a slow breath and willed himself to turn around and walk away.

 

Then he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and made the mistake of turning to look. He’d expected one of the cats, maybe even Ody come to see why John was skullking outside their bedroom.

 

Instead he found a mirror, the long ornate kind John imagined might sit in a dressing room, hanging on the wall opposite the bedroom door. He couldn’t see himself in the mirror, hidden just out of the line of sight.

 

But he could see them, clear and vivid as if he was standing at their bedside. 

 

And oh God, John wished he had never stepped foot down the hall.

 

Thomas was spread out on his back, the sheets thrown aside to give them room to move. James sat astride his narrow hips, resting there as if he’d only just managed to take him all the way, his broad chest heaving as he breathed through the overwhelming stretch. He was flushed, from the tips of his ears down to the thick expanse of his thighs, a rich rosy hue that nearly consumed his freckles. His eyes were closed, face slack in an expression of near bliss, as Thomas ran his hands up and down his chest to soothe him, pointedly ignoring his cock where it curled, already dripping against his stomach.

 

He was beautiful, John thought desperately, as a violent wave of arousal hit him and made his knees weak. They were beautiful.

 

He should go, he told himself, he really needed to leave, this wasn’t for him to witness.

 

And then James started moving, rolling his hips in a slow, building rhythm, not lifting himself up but just grinding against Thomas until it became too much. John watched as Thomas took James by the hips and braced his feet against the bed, thrusting up hard when James ground his hips down.

 

“Oh f-fuck-”

 

John saw the words fall from James’ lips, watched his eyes flutter open so he could gaze at  the man beneath him in what John could only call absolute reverence. Thomas set a demanding, but slow rhythm, fucking James with deep steady thrusts that had him gasping for air and cursing in a broken voice.

 

“Careful,” Thomas warned when James’ voice pitched louder and John could see the almost predatory smile on his face. “Don’t want to wake your boy now do you?”

 

“Don’t fucking call him tha-” James’s words were lost to a strangled sob, as he ground his hips down to meet Thomas’ thrusts, bracing his hands on his husband’s chest. “Oh- oh fuck, fuck Thomas-”

 

“That’s it darling- That’s it-” Thomas’ voice sounded like honey, pitched low as he sat up and rolled them, pressing James down into the mattress. He pressed a hand to James’ mouth to stifle the sound he made, as James arched up into him and took him deeper. 

 

John had to bite down hard on his hand to keep quiet. He was passively aware of his arousal, the new jeans tight and smothering against his cock as it begged for attention. It felt like a punch to the gut as he watched Thomas spread James’ legs wider, his large hands gripping James’ freckled thighs so firmly that John had to wonder about bruises left behind. 

 

And the sounds James made, even as he tried to keep quiet.

 

Each and every one felt like a burn on John’s skin. A sickly sweet, beautiful burn he wanted to endure a thousand times over. 

 

He watched as Thomas leaned forward, nearly bending James in half with the effort and John could only wonder absently if it hurt. But the desperate sound James made, the way he clung to Thomas’ shoulders and begged, something John thought he’d never hear fall from James’ lips, put that to rest for him. 

 

At his begging Thomas went still, hips flush against James ass. He took James’ arms from around his shoulders and pinned them to the bed, and John could see him fully again.

 

He looked drugged, slack jawed and dazed as he looked up at Thomas, his hips twitching as he tried to get him to move, a broken “please” escaping him. Thomas said something John couldn’t hear, something that made James nod his head sharply as Thomas leaned in closer to kiss him. 

 

It was the first time John had ever seen them kiss, he realized. He’d only seen them share the chaste kiss hello, or a kiss on the cheek, never the kind of kiss he expected from such long time lovers. He hadn’t given it much thought before, if anything he figured they were being needlessly courteous to him as a guest.

 

John watched, his eyes fixed helplessly on the mirror, as Thomas kissed James like he was something precious, something irreplaceable, something entirely his. One of his hands moved to cradle the back of James’ head, threading through his thick hair and holding on tight. James brought his freed hand to rest on Thomas’ cheek in turn, his lips opening in a needy sigh, letting his husband lick into his mouth. 

 

Thomas pressed closer and with a slow roll of his hips, turned the kiss from devastatingly intimate to desperately hungry, James gasping against his mouth, breathing his name like one might name a saint-

 

That did it. 

 

That moment, with all their raw devotion so brutally on display, broke John. It sent him fleeing. He barely remembered to grab his bag and the library tote as he raced out the door, rushing to the subway station at the end of the block. He dropped into a seat on the first train that arrived and tried to remember to breathe, the tote covering his lap so no one could see his shame.

 

He shouldn’t have stayed.

 

He should never have gone down the hallway. 

 

Now the images would be burned into his memory forever. Now every casual touch and passing word from them was going to be haunted by the way their bodies had moved together, how they had sounded in their bliss. Now John could even picture what James might look like when he came- head thrown back, body arching up as he went tight as a wire, his calloused hands scrambling for purchase as Thomas kept fucking him through it, until he was limp and begging beneath him. 

 

John didn’t know what was worse- that now he had the visual aide for his seemingly inescapable, and inexplicable, fantasies or that he couldn’t figure which of them he was more ruined by. 

 

Had he thought about them before? 

 

Well as people yes, obviously, he was almost ready to consider them both friends.

 

Had the thought about them sexually before that morning?

 

No, not really. The passing what if but nothing lasting, nothing concrete.

 

Why not? 

 

Because life had been one fucking shit show after another the past two weeks and even though John had felt the passing moment of lust for either one of them, it was ultimately a distraction. Apparently yes, he’d have loved to get dicked down by one of them, hell or both of them if he was going to admit it to himself. He’d have loved to get dicked down so thoroughly that he forgot entirely about why he’d come to New York in the first place.

 

But that wasn’t how life worked.

 

You couldn’t just escape your problems by falling into bed with the first unfairly attractive people you met. At least not in the long term, and John knew that, despite what his dick was trying to argue. The whole reason John had dragged his sorry gay ass all the way across the goddamn country was to find a long term solution to his problems. 

 

A good fucking wasn’t going to be that solution.

 

So John mentally recited Pygmalion all the way back to 33rd street, only stopping to walk the last few blocks to his hotel. He dragged himself up to his room and locked the door soundly behind him before he pulled out his phone and sent them both some bullshit text about why he’d left without saying goodbye. Something about Max wanting to introduce him to an actress friend or something equally feeble that John knew they’d probably see right through. 

 

He waited, leaning against the door and staring at his phone, for a reply. He stood there for five minutes, then ten, waiting for the little speech bubble to appear opposite his to tell him they were finished and had rejoined the rest of the world. It had taken him twenty minutes to get across town, surely they’d see his text now that they were finished and debating what to do with the rest of their day.

 

But the speech bubble didn’t appear, and John’s mind began to wander again. 

 

What if they were still at it? He wondered.

 

What if James’ had come and Thomas, bastard that he was, was working him up again, teasing him until his cock was hard and leaking against his stomach again?

 

John threw the phone onto the bed and dropped the bags he was carrying. His skin felt hot despite the chill of the room, the sweater suddenly itchy as the mental image overwhelmed him. He pulled at it, trying to get it off, trying to get some kind of relief that would let him calm down and didn’t involve touching himself to the thought of his friends, his married friends, fucking. 

 

But when he pulled the sweater over his head, all he could smell was the same peculiar cologne that James had been wearing the night before, as if it had rubbed off when James had hung the clothes on the door during the night. 

 

With a violent curse, John shoved the jeans and his underwear down his hips. He couldn’t escape it, not with the image of them so clear in his mind, not with the scent of James filling his nose. The first touch to his cock made him keen, a high needy sound that should have been embarrassing, if the whole ordeal wasn’t already enough to make John humiliated. He kept his face pressed into the sweater, letting his mind run away with what he’d seen as he fucked his fist with a haphazard rhythm. 

 

He came to the thought of what it might feel like to be caught between them, to be used by them, letting out a sob that was muffled by the sweater. 

 

The room seemed to spin as he came down from the high, staring at the molding on the ceiling as he gasped for air. He hadn’t jerked off much over the past months. Most of the time he was too tired, too depressed, too overworked to have the energy for it. The warmth that seeped into every nerve made him sigh, content for a moment, one single blissful moment. 

 

Then reality came knocking and John felt sick.

 

What the fuck was he doing?

 

John tossed the sweater away and rushed into the bathroom to clean himself up and wash his face, panic seizing his lungs, making it harder to breathe. 

 

They were his friends. 

 

They were his married friends.

 

So what if they used to be poly, that didn’t mean they were there for John’s voyeuristic pleasure, unintentional as it may have been. 

 

What the fuck was wrong with him?

 

John stripped off the jeans and his pros, and crawled into bed despite it only being two in the afternoon, feeling miserable and shaking with the sudden force of his self loathing. The bottle of whiskey was almost tempting, but he could still feel the pulse of the hangover behind his eyes. 

 

So he laid there, trying to calm himself down from the panic attack he’d sent himself into. It took time and John was sure he heard his phone buzz in the interim, but he was too afraid to check it. 

 

When he settled, nearly a half an hour later, his mind offered one point of possible comfort as he took a slow breath and reached for his phone.

 

“You don’t want to wake your boy-” Thomas had said and despite not knowing what the fuck he’d meant by it, there was no doubt as to who he was referring to. And then there had been James’ almost teasing reminder about their conversation on sunday, about their history.

 

John didn’t know what to do with the realization or with the reminder for that matter, as he checked his phone to see two messages, one from each of them. 

 

_ Hope you got home safe. _ James said, and John wondered if he was still coming down from his own post coital haze.

 

**_I’m sorry we missed you! I hope to see you before I leave on Tuesday <3_ ** the second message read, Thomas again tacking on the damn heart emoji and adding to John’s confusion. 

 

He didn’t reply. What could he say?

 

He set his phone aside and counted down from fifty until he felt himself dozing off. At this point, a nap was as good an idea as any for how to deal with his new found problems. 

 

He needed some distance. That was all. A bit of time, a bit of air, a bit of space, the chance to refocus on what he was supposed to be achieving-

 

That was all he needed. A few days of it , maybe a week even, and he’d be fine, he’d be able to face them both without that twisting sense of want coiling in his stomach. 

 

John pointedly didn’t text either of them on Monday morning, as he got ready to meet Anne and Charles. Anne had texted him early that morning, offering to meet up for coffee and a perusal of NYU’s campus that afternoon, if he wanted to try and clear his head a bit, if he wanted to maybe see what options it offered. John didn’t want to go back to school, not yet, not with six thousand dollars to his name and no credit to speak of. 

 

But it was as good an idea as any, spending the day in the world of academics. 

 

It was better than wallowing over the McGraws and scouring the internet for job applications at any rate. He rolled out of bed and told Anne he’d meet her around two in Union Square, when her workshop ended. 

 

John did his best to get caught up in his work, starting from the moment he woke up from his wallowing and self loathing induced nap. He’d stayed up through the night reading and rereading Hornigold’s awful edits on his work, making his own notes to sort out where he could, perhaps play up the emotion, play up the sentiment, making the raw edge of the author’s voice sharper so that the audience couldn’t mistake it for a whim or a misprint. But even as he worked to rewrite the two existing pieces the concept of being merely “subtext” gnawd at John. He wanted to expand on it, tie it into his current one but there wasn’t a place that felt like a natural link, a intake of breath that allowed for a pause to reflect before making another point. In his tattered notebook he made a note scribbling out a few lines on the topic, to revisit later. Maybe he could just make something new out it.

 

“Wait- what was the fucker’s name again?” Charles asked that afternoon. He, Anne, and John were crowded into a little corner table at Tortaria on the corner of 12th and University Plaza. It was a little bodega style place, filled to capacity with NYU students trying to waste a bit of time before heading to their evening classes.  

 

“Which one?” John asked around a mouthful of fish taco. “Cause they were all fuckers honestly, every goddamn teacher at the workshop.”

 

“The fucking- Who’s running the place-” Charles waved a hand as he knocked back the rest of his beer. “The Jackass supreme or whatever.”

 

“Oh, Hornigold-”

 

“Ah wait a sec, did he teach a semester or two here?” Anne asked and Charles shrugged, getting up to grab another round of beers from the bar. “Nah I think he did. He wasn’t invited back though, something happened during pride I think.”

 

“Well that’d make sense. He’s not like, blatantly phobic but like-”

 

“You just get that vibe, yeah I know whatcha mean,” Anne made a face. “There’s plenty a’fucks like him on tenure. Can’t weed em out fast enough and half the time they’re replaced with someone worse.”

 

“No hang on,” Charles dropped back into his seat. “I know this fucker.”

 

“You do?” John frowned. Charles had only recently started getting back into the idea of college, and for social work not the arts.

 

“He knows Teach,” Charles said and Anne made a gagging sound. “They went to college together or something. White hair, shitty hipster ‘stache, always looks like he’s got a stick up his ass?” John nodded. “Yeah, Ben Fucking Hornigold.” 

 

While he didn’t know the whole story, John knew enough from Jack’s wine fueled bitching about Edward Teach, the man who’d at one point in time been Charles’ foster father. None of what Jack had had to share had been all that good, biased though he was, so John wasn’t surprised that he and Hornigold were friends. 

 

“I didn’t know Teach was involved in the arts at all,” John said. 

 

“He isn’t, for the most part he thinks they’re generally bullshit,” Charles shrugged. “But he’s got a couple scholarships and donates regularly to some… funds or whatever. He and Hornigold kept ties through that probably.”  

 

“You still not talking to him?” Anne asked, snapping a picture of the way the light played on Charles’ hair. 

 

The camera had been how John first met Anne, via skype with his sister as Anne sat in the background fiddling with her lens, occasionally snapping photos of Max while they talked. She always seemed to be in the background, silent and observant, her finger on the camera’s trigger at any given moment. John liked that about her, how she always seemed able to step back and just see, even if in the beginning, when she’d just been Max’s almost girlfriend, she’d given John the creeps with her piercing stare.

 

Charles held still while she took two more shots, before making a face at her question. “I guess not. He called me last week to try and set up dinner. Didn’t exactly feel like putting up with another round of fucking disappointment bingo-”

 

“What’d he want to talk about?” 

 

“Moving to Boston, with him.”

 

“You told him he could fuck off, yeah? Cause that’s not fucking happening,” Anne replied and John knew the bite of anger in her words was as much for Jack’s sake as it was her own. 

 

The three of them had, as far as John could tell, been inseparable since High school, or whatever equivalent they’d gone through. They were the kind of Triad John had once believed only existed in books, the kind who could have full conversations with glances and eyebrows, with the way their hand rested on the other’s shoulder or how they tilted their head. It was fascinating to watch them, even when one was missing. 

 

“Course I did. I’m not leaving the city, Red, relax. He’s just gonna kick up a fit and try again in another six months.” Charles stretched, the deep cut of his tank top sleeves showing off the scars on his chest. “I think he’s only coming around because now I’m, ya know, his son n’shit instead, legally, instead of his daughter.” 

 

“Probably.”

 

“You didn’t tell Jack did you? About him wanting you to leave?” John asked, he could already picture the fit of panic it’d send Jack into. It had taken him years to finally close the distance between him and Charles, to cross the line from platonic intimacy in all things to the romanic weight they now shared between them. 

 

“I’m sure he knows Teach is trying convince me, but no, I didn’t. He’s stressed enough with this new podcast he’s doing for work. Between that and worrying about your twinky ass-”

 

“I told him I’m fine,” John snapped. Charles only laughed at him. 

 

“I mean, he knows that’s horseshit just like I do just looking at you now,” Anne said. “I get the workshop fucking you up but there’s something else you’re not telling us, Silver.”

 

John looked from her to Charles, who was watching him like a cat might a stubborn mouse. He was reminded then, of waking up in the hospital room to find them both there, before they’d become friends, when Anne was just “the girlfriend” and Charles was just Jack’s “it’s complicated” and the three of them were tied together by a kind of emotional devotion John still couldn’t really comprehend. 

 

“Look, you don’t wanna tell us, fine,” Charles said. “Don’t tell us. It ain’t our business. But We are far less annoying than Jack and if we tell him you’re good then he may back off.”

 

“That’s a bullshit bribe for gossip, Charles.” 

 

“Did you fuck someone?” Anne asked, reaching for one of the unclaimed shot glasses of tequila. “Cause that’d be the kinda thing that might fuck you up, what with your feelings being a mess twenty four seven n’shit.”

 

“My feelings are not a mess jesus christ guys-”

 

“I mean, they are. That’s why you’re here right? Cause shit got a little too heavy to handle by yourself?” Charles smiled. “In both an emotional and physical sense?”

 

John rolled his eyes. “No I didn’t fuck anyone.”

 

But Charles’ smile took on a sharp edge. “Oh but you want to don’t you-”

 

“That’s it then, you’re pining. I thought I knew the look, Mark from work gets the same one sometimes,” Anne said, passing the rest of the shot to John, who knocked it back with a scowl despite the early hour. 

 

“I’m not pining! Christ I’m not a fucking middle schooler or-” John looked up at Charles as he set the shot glass back down on the table and felt his tongue catch. Charles was watching him, the smile gone, eyes fixed on him with unwavering focus and clarity, watching for the moment John slipped. “I-”

 

“You know wanting to fuck someone is normal right?” Anne asked. “Like- It’s as normal as not wanting to fuck someone, but if the mood strikes it’s not like you’re a nun, silver.”

 

“He can’t have them. That’s the problem, Red,” Charles said softly. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

 

For a bro, and even with his long undercut and eyeliner and torn up skinny jeans Charles still encapsulated enough of the chaotic energy John had come to associate with the frat party subculture, he was unnervingly perceptive about people. He’d called out John on his failed recovery months before even John himself had been brave enough to face it. 

 

“Uh- its… it’s not entirely that simple a thing…” John said finally, sitting back in his seat.

 

Charles hummed and set the untouched bottle of beer in front of him. “Nothing is, really. So what, are they taken?”

 

“Married.”

 

Anne and Charles winced. “Shit-”

 

“Married, and very very happy. Even if I was- willing to consider being that person and fucking everything up they’d never consider it. It’s love, that awful, gross, sappy kinda thing.”

 

“You’re too nice a person to be a homewrecker, Silver,” Anne patted his shoulder. “Even for a con artist you’re just far too nice. You’ve got them morals and all.”

 

“Trust me I’m trying not to have any morals, or pride, but it’s turning out to be harder than expected.”

 

Charles sat back in his seat. “Married, but still spending time with you?” John nodded. “So you know the spouse?”

 

“Yeah. And they’re… intolerable at times. But the way Jack is, ya know? Intolerable but you can’t exactly-”

 

“Get enough of it, yeah.”

 

John run a hand through his hair. “I enjoy their company, I enjoy their attention, but its a bad idea, I can feel it. Spending time with them, letting myself get distracted by it.”

 

“Is it a distraction?” Charles asked. 

 

“Well- yeah I mean if I’m wasting energy on them then I’m not- I came here to start a career not have a good time.” John didn’t expect the laugh it got from Charles, as he shook his head and took a sip of his beer. “What?”

 

“You sound like my Ex. The whole, love’s a distraction, fucking’s a distraction and whatever. She used to say the same thing when she was pissed at me.” 

 

“She said the same to Max once or twice when they were fighting,” Anne added and John stopped mid drink to stare at her.

 

“Wait- wait you dated Max’s ex?” he asked, looking to Charles.

 

“Yeah, technically before she dated max. But then El’s… indecisive? Is that a good word for it?”

 

“I have a few choice words for it,” Anne grumbled.

 

“Point is-” Charles said and Anne rolled her eyes. “El is successful, El is imposing, El is making more money than I’ve ever seen in my life in each and every paycheck working in that fancy firm. All because she wrote off everything that wasn’t her career as a distraction.”

 

There was a touch of bitterness to his words, a touch of melancholy that was a strange sight on Charles. There was also a touch of regret that had John’s curiosity peaked, and questions forming n the tip of his tongue. But Charles continued before he could ask.

 

“You came here for your career you said. But is that all you want? A career?”

 

John looked down at his beer, toying with the bright yellow label. “I- I guess that’s the only thing I considered. Whatever would get the big pay day that meant I wasn’t- That meant I’d be free, one day somehow, I’d earn enough to be free of it all.”

 

“You’re allowed to enjoy the process a bit. Like- it’d probably be less fucking miserable if you allowed yourself some kind of fun along the way. Instead of thinking it’s a distraction.”

 

“Okay fine, it’s not a distraction, but he’s still married,” John rubbed his eyes. “So even if I were to say it was a good idea, it’s not a good idea, not this time.”

 

“Eh, that’s true. I mean, hell, you’re tough, I’m sure you can get over him.”

 

John didn’t want to and apparently that fact showed on his face because Anne laughed and patted his shoulder. “I guess… It’ just-”

 

“What?”

 

“He said something the other day, I honestly think he was fucking with me but-”

 

Charles sat forward with a smile. “What he’d say?”

 

“He and his husband used to have a third. A setup like you guys but then she moved away and they didn’t want anyone else, I guess.”

 

Charles and Anne exchanged a look. 

 

“Did they tell you that?” Charles asked. “That they don’t want a third?”

 

“Not exactly no.”

 

Anne snorted. “Then how do you know that?”

 

“Because I just- look if you’d seen them you’d understand okay? They’re… Perfect together, in the way that just screams happy monogamy.” John slid down a bit in his seat, letting himself wallow. He wouldn’t let himself acknowledge that maybe he was more emotionally invested than just wanting to fuck around with them, but he’d let himself wallow if nothing else. 

 

“Most monogamy I see is a load of bs, but then I’m biased,” Charles said. “Have you considered, I dunno, talking to them about it? Cause technically I don’t think it’s an affair if all parties are aware and on board-” John looked up in horror and Charles laughed. “Alright, alright, I guess you have thought about it.”

 

“I can’t. I really, really can’t.”

 

Charles waved it away. “Fine, fine then we let it go.”

 

“We might, Jackie won’t.” Anne made a face.

 

“No he won’t,” John agreed. “He’s insufferable about it and I haven’t even told him it’s escalated past just platonic bullshit…”

 

“I know what he’d tell you in the end though,” Anne said, as Charles waved the waitress down for the check.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“That you’re here to sort yourself out, right?” Anne paused to snap a picture of John. “How is sorting out what and who you want not part of the same process?”

 

John didn’t really have an argument for that, not yet anyway. Anne smiled, a lazy twist at the corner of her thin lips.

 

“It’s shitty,” She said, “trying to sort through all your masks to find the one you want to be real. Even shittier when you have to let someone see it plainly and decide if you’re worth it. But, having… started that same process before, I can say it’s easier to do when you let someone help you along. Sure, it’s something you have to face yourself, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have someone there to help pick up the pieces.” 

 

“Self inflicted exile ain’t worth it, silver,” She added. “It never is. And it just makes your demons all the louder after a while.”

 

Her thoughts on the matter lingered in the forefront of John’s mind as he followed them around NYU’s campus after lunch, getting the contact info for the Drama department advisors and a few dates for open auditions he might be willing to consider. Even if he couldn’t shake the advice, Anne and Charles kept their word until John said goodbye, and his sex life or lack there of wasn’t mentioned again. 

On his way home John visited a bookstore Jack had recommended on the corner of 12th and broadway, in hopes of clearing his head, refocusing on what made sense to him- his work. In their section on plays and monologues John was relieved to find dozens of scripts marked used, for no more than five dollars or so. 

He needed a refresher, he felt, needed to relive the words of those who had come before for a while, as he tried to let his own wounded voice recover. He left with a small stack of them and camped out at the cafe across the street, with the largest redeye they could give him and his pen case, determined to fill each book with as many constructive notes as possible.

 

It wasn’t until later that night, long after sundown and a working dinner at the little sicilian spot he’d wondered about, did he realize he hadn’t heard from either McGraw the whole day. It had happened before, they’d gone a day or two without much communication. After all they were barely friends, John wasn’t going to fancy himself of any real importance to them. And besides, hadn’t he wanted space from them? He reminded himself of that as he stepped into the lobby of his hotel, he had wanted distance, and maybe he was going to get it.

 

“Ah, Silver,” the night clerk said with a wave. “A moment please-”

 

There was a moment of panic as John turned back to the front desk. His bank account still had almost five thousand dollars in it, surely his card hadn’t been declined.

 

“Yes?” he asked.

 

“There was a delivery for you today while you were out.”

 

John stared at him. “A what?”

 

“A delivery. You know, like ups?”

 

“I- alright I guess-” getting mail at a hotel was a bizarre concept. John had set up a PO box back in California, and all mail was currently being forwarded to Max’s address until he left the City. So why anyone would send mail to his hotel was beyond him. “Do I need to sign?”

 

“No, they were taken up to your room earlier, after the cleaning staff was finished.”

 

“They? Like- plural?”

 

The clerk nodded, dropping back into his chair. “Like four or five of them I think, or so they said when I came on shift.”

 

John thanked him and went up to his room with an overwhelming sense of apprehension. The only people who know where he was staying were Max and The Rangers, and The McGraws-

 

John stood outside his door as a thought came to him.

 

Thomas and James knew where he was staying. And Thomas had asked for several of his purchases to be delivered.

 

“Oh jesus fucking christ he had better not-” John cursed, unlocking his door. 

 

Sure enough, six boxes, not the four or five the clerk remembered, each about a foot by a foot and a half in size, stood on the floor by his bed, the room around them cleaned and organized as it had been when he’d first arrived. He’d stashed his belongings in the wardrobe and the safe before leaving, taking down the polaroids so they wouldn’t accidentally be thrown out. So in the pristine condition of the room, the packages seemed even more ridiculous and almost foreboding. 

 

An envelope was taped to the top of the pile and John recognized the handwriting as Thomas’.

 

“That sonnova bitch.” he grabbed the letter and leaned back against the door as he read it.

 

It was a little note card, the corner monogrammed with Thomas’ initials. On it sat no real explanation, simply a quick note.

 

_ Don’t be cross, in my defense I have very little impulse control _ . 

 

John groaned and stared at the boxes like they might bite him. So much for getting his much needed distance. As he went to set aside the note he saw another line written on the back.

 

_ Besides how does it go? ‘There’s no blue Monday in your Sunday clothes’? ♡ xo _

 

It was ridiculous, as his eyes stung while rereading the note. Thomas was ridiculous, the note was ridiculous, and the fact that John was getting emotional over a single line from fucking Hello Dolly was just the ridiculous icing on top of a nonsensical cake.

 

He set the note aside and, after a slow breath, set about opening the boxes with his pocket knife. 

 

The top box held three sweaters and three white undershirts- John had been talked into trying on the Charcoal gray sweater that was resting on top- and a pair of the simple cable knit cardigans that had caught his eye. 

 

The second box held another pair of jeans and two simple pairs of cotton slacks, in black and gray. At this point John was pretty sure he could just toss his old threadbare jeans and single pair of ill fitting Chinos he’d gotten at goodwill for interviews, what with the now three pairs of jeans he’d ended up with thanks to Thomas and James.

 

The third box held a pair of chelsea boots, their polished black leather and familiar faded soles marking them as Doc’s. There was a note in the box, the size of a business card that read-  _ James said these were best for you. Since he owns four pairs of Docs I didn’t argue _ .

 

John laughed, wiping at his eyes even as he felt a tad nauseous. They were fucking impossible, the both of them. At least, from what John could tell, none of the clothes were designer labels and he had to say a little prayer of thanks for that. He’d probably have died the moment he opened the first box if a goddamn Prada label had stared back at him. 

 

Instead of clothes, the fourth box, the outside of which was printed with the name of the shop, held a stack of notebooks and a new assortment of pens, highlighters, and pencils, all carrying the same japanese brand name. John counted twenty notebooks, some small enough to fit into his pocket alongside his phone, the largest the size of the box itself, unlined so he could possibly sketch out stage directions if the whim ever struck. A few were as thick as the moleskine he had now, others thin and flexible, with paper covers. 

 

He stared at the contents for a moment or two, more overwhelmed by the sentiment behind them. Thomas had glimpsed his tattered, well loved notebook and chewed up pens once or twice as they’d been out, John using it to make notes of titles in the library. He must have made the decision then to drag John across the street to the stationary store once they were finished, and to observe him closely to see which notebooks and pens he liked the feel of best. Out of everything, they seemingly required the most thought, and it struck John a little dumb.

 

Slowly, he reached for the last two boxes, nervous now in a way he hadn’t been when he started. The stationary held sentiment, it held possibility. What if the last two were something even more carefully planned?

 

Each box held a thick, carefully folded black garment bag that John recognized from Saks and he felt his hands shake as he opened them. 

 

Thomas had convinced him to try on a handful of suits, though none had really fit the way they were meant to. It had resulted in the tailor redoing John’s measurements and, or at least John had thought, leaving without a purchase being made. After all, John could barely afford a full suit from Men’s Warehouse, even on a good pay week, so there was no way in hell he was going to be able to even afford a blazer at a place like Saks. He had joked with the tailor while Thomas had been on a call, an honest joke, about needing someone crazy enough to buy it for him.

 

Apparently Thomas was that crazy.

 

A gray suit- blazer, suit pants, white cotton button down, dark blue tie, pocket square, the works- stared up at him from the first garment bag. A black three piece, with the waistcoat that had caused Thomas to stare at him, and all the trappings of the gray suit, sat pretty in the second. 

 

John fumbled for his phone while staring at them. He dialed and kept staring, slack jawed, until he heard Thomas answer.

 

“Yes?” his voice was rough, tense with a day at the office, and John could faintly hear his fingers on a keyboard. Maybe he was still at work, even give the late hour.

 

“What the fuck, Thomas?” John asked, his voice squeaking, and he winced. That hadn’t been what he wanted to say, no he’d wanted to say something clever, something charming. But apparently his wits had gone and died on him.

 

“John?’ Thomas asked after a pause. “Something wrong?”

 

“What- the- what the fuck? Thomas what the-”

 

“Oh! Oh did you get the packages then?” And damn him John could hear the fucking smile on his impossible face. 

 

“Thomas- Thomas I can’t accept these I- this is fucking insane-”

 

“No it isn’t, you’re just being melodramatic.” Thomas said gently. “They’re gifts John. From James and I.”

 

“For what?”

 

“Just because.”

 

“No. NO- you send a hallmark card for just because, you buy drugstore chocolate just because you don’t- Thomas I can’t pay you back for any of this-” John said on a panicked whine. “I can’t-”

 

“They’re gifts John, you don’t pay people back for gifts. Look, if you can’t accept them as the gifts they are, then think of them as- I don’t know, investments.”

 

John stared at his phone, investments?

 

“A good suit can make a lot of difference when it comes to first impressions. And since you’re spending all your waking hours in the city going from one interview to another, having a proper suit seems like a reasonable idea, yes?”

 

“... yes?”

 

“Yes. So these are then investments, a little bit of help that doesn’t undermine your agency.”

 

“I- I told you I don’t want Charity-”

 

“You’d help Jack buy a new suit if he needed it, wouldn’t you? You’d stay up all night helping Max do her hair if she asked you too, wouldn’t you? You’d pitch in if Anne needed a new lens?”

 

“Of course I-”

 

“Do you see any of those actions as charity, John?”

 

No, he didn’t. He sighed and again he could just picture the smile on Thomas’ face, bordering on smug.

 

“If you don’t like them, genuinely, then I’ll take them back, I have the receipts at home. But you deserve nice things John. You deserve them just as much as anyone else.” Thomas said.

 

“I- they’re beautiful,” John said in a small voice, closing his eyes against the sting. “Thank you, Thomas.”

 

“Of course John.” John heard the beeping of an incoming call and Thomas’ soft curse. “I’m sorry darling, I have to take this-”

 

“No it’s alright. See you.”

 

“Goodnight John.”

 

The first thing John did when he hung up was snap a picture of all the boxes and their contents and text it to max.

 

Her reply was almost immediate.

 

_ What the fuck? _

 

**Remember the shopping bags?**

 

_ Oh my god. Oh my god John!! _

 

**Max I’m dying-**

 

_ You’re a sugar baby now _ .

 

**I am not!!**

 

_ I don’t really think it’s your choice any more lmao. _

 

Passively, John had to agree with her. Maybe it wasn’t really his choice anymore, if Thomas and James were going to just act like fools anyway. With all the energy he was devoting to mere survival, he didn’t really have the excess energy to waste on discouraging their antics. But even so, even if the choice wasn’t entirely his, he knew where the line in the sand was to be drawn. 

 

He knew what he could have, he knew what was off limits. Gifts from wealthy, over enthusiastic friends was one thing, he was allowed that he guessed, even if it made him uneasy. 

 

But the concept of Thomas and James giving him whatever he asked for, simply because he wanted it and they wanted him, was so far off limits that he refused to even joke about it as a possibility. 

 

The line in the sand was drawn there, and it was going to stay there until the month came to a close and John had to decide what came next for him. Then maybe, depending on how ruined New York left him, he could put some actual thought into whether his pride would even allow him to consider it. 

 

In the morning, and perhaps on a stroke of his own madness, he sent Thomas a picture of how the new jeans and the gray sweater looked on him. They felt, like everything else, far better than the clothes he’d always bought himself, and as he stepped out onto the street, he actually felt a strange, foreign swell of confidence. At least now he didn’t have to worry about being looked down on for his appearance.

 

Thomas texted him from the train, already heading south to Washington. John laughed as he opened the message to find nothing but emojis grinning back up at him.

 

**Even your emojis are smug.** He replied.

 

_ Of course I’m smug, you look fantastic xo _

 

**Thanks, again** .

 

_ Of course <3 hopefully we can all do dinner when I get back _ .

 

**Sounds good. Safe trip <3** .

 

_ <3 _

 

John couldn’t stop smiling, silly as it was, as he headed downtown. The prospect of dinner later in the week had him hopeful. It’d give him a few days to sort out his feelings and by the time Thomas and James were inviting him out for another evening, he’d be able to control himself. It wasn’t like James would be texting him, asking to see him in the middle of the work week, after all. James was the sensible one, the one who probably went to work early and stayed late on the regular. 

 

So yeah he’d be fine.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just a short update, im sorry it's so tiny but i wanted to make sure something got posted as i work on finishing the whole mess 
> 
> have some angst
> 
> more importantly HAL FUCKING GATES MAKES HIS DEBUT alongside angry blonde punk eleanor
> 
> have fun, feel free to leave a comment or reach out to me at the crumbling hell that is tumblr lupismaris.tumblr.com

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO REALLY QUICKLY
> 
> i have a lot of feelings about the relationship between gates and james in canon and i am 100% using this fic as a chance to have a happier rendition of their relationship play out because I love hal gates so much and i truly believe that despite his own madness and grief, james loved him in his own fucked up way. so here, have some boat dad.
> 
> this is the first chapter that really brings in back story for our two english sugar daddies and while it's merely the start of it, and the angst that follows, I hope you find it worth while. i have opinions about certain individuals in their lives and you are absolutely gonna hear about them by the time this fic is done. 
> 
> and last but not least, the second band that plays, the "band from wessex", is an actual band whom I adore with all my heart and soul, if you feel like looking them up to get a sense of the music, just google Frank Turner and the Sleeping Souls.

 

 

In the end James didn’t text him, as expected. But John’s hope of getting distance was again shattered by Thomas. Wednesday morning John’s phone started ringing in his pocket as he left an interview, buzzing like an angry bee until he answered.

 

“John- John I’m sorry I know how busy you are-” Thomas said by way of greeting and John stopped mid step at the panic in his voice. “I’m sorry but I-”

 

“Thomas what’s wrong?” John sidestepped until he was out of the way of foot traffic. “I thought you were still in-”

 

“I am, I’m still in Washington and that’s the problem. James isn’t answering his phone, I haven’t heard from him since last night. He- sometimes he gets caught up in work and if that were all I’d understand but Billy called me this morning-”

 

John remembered him, vaguely, from the party. James’ intern, a giant of a man with biceps as big as John’s thigh even in a soft cable knit jumper. Soft spoken, blue eyes, oddly loyal to a man he loved to shit talk.

 

“Billy said James left work only an hour or so after he arrived this morning. That he arrived, clocked in, started his work and got pulled off the lab floor because of a telephone call. After that he stormed out with his bag and turned off his phone. He’s not answered once and Billy said he was in a fit when he left.”

 

Thomas sounded sick with worry, his voice twisted into something dreadful. John wasn’t sure if it was his fear rubbing off on him, or if the ugly churning in his stomach was his own fear for James.

 

“Okay- Okay what can I do?” he asked crossing the street to the uptown subway entrance. “Thomas what do you need? If he’s not answering your calls he won’t answer mine.”

 

“Can- can you go by the house?” Thomas asked and John could just see him pacing his hotel room like a caged animal. “Sometimes he goes for a ride, takes his bike upstate for a few hours. That’s- not ideal but at least I know he’ll be home soon enough.”

 

“If his bike is there and he isn’t?” John asked.

 

“He’s- fuck uhm- probably the beach. He used to go there when he had a shit day at work.”

 

“Okay- Okay I’ll head uptown I should be there in twenty minutes.”

 

Thomas told him where the spare key was so he could let himself into the house and the call disconnected as John went underground, catching the first 6 train uptown to 96th street. 

 

James’ bike was still tucked under the front steps where it was supposed to be.

 

**Bike’s here** , he told Thomas, as he found the spare key and let himself in. 

 

“James?” he called. He waited in the foyer, but only Marlowe and Ody came trotting out to meet him. There was no sign that James had even come home, save for his phone sitting on the hall table.

 

And a large bloody dent in the foyer wall.

 

John stared at it, the unease that had begun to knot itself into his stomach twisting into fear. 

 

_ Is he there? _ Thomas asked.

 

**No. His phone is. He’s gone.**

 

_ Fuck. _

 

**Hey can James’ plaster walls?**

 

_ Why? _

 

John took a picture of the damage to the wall, still having trouble looking away from the speckles of red on the soft blue paint. He grabbed the forgotten cell phone when Thomas texted him James’ screen lock code. The recent calls list was still open on the screen and John texted the most recent name to Thomas.

 

**Does Henessy mean anything to you?** he asked.  **He’s the last phone call** .

 

Thomas’ reply took a moment and it didn’t do much to reassure John that everything was alright.

 

_ Yes. It explains the hole in the wall _ , he said.

 

John sighed and pocketed the cellphone. According to his phone he could catch the next southbound Q train and be in Coney Island in an hour. 

 

**I’ll find him, I promise,** he replied to Thomas, before he slipped back underground. He didn’t get another message from Thomas when the Q train emerged on the East Side of Manhattan and crossed the river, giving John that old stunning view of the Gotham skyline as they moved east to Brooklyn. He’d been caught up in it, when he and Max had visited the beach his first week. Now though, he barely noticed, sitting by the car door and trying not to picture the worst possible outcome of what trouble James might have gotten into. 

 

Being October, the beach and boardwalk were half deserted, only a small few shops open along the boardwalk. John passed a few buskers with their instruments, a group of tourists or two as he searched for a familiar head of red hair. On the sand he watched a pair of old men pass with their metal detectors, a woman doing yoga by the incoming tide-

 

And there, his hair down, jeans rolled up to his knees, and using his dress shirt as a blanket, was James.

 

John let out a heavy sigh of relief upon seeing him, kicking off his shoes after texting Thomas.

 

**I found him** .

 

He pocketed his phone and trekked across the sand, sure that James would hear him coming. When he got closer he noticed the drink tray sitting next to him, one empty plastic pint cup wedged into it, another filled with beer in James’ hand. What surprised John most was the cigarette held between his swollen, bloody fingers. 

 

“Please tell me that isn’t your lunch,” John said when he reached him.

 

James startled, spooked from his brooding by John’s voice. He looked up at him with a scowl.

 

“Fuck are you doing here?” he asked, his voice a growl as he brought the cigarette back to his lips and John was given a clear view of his knuckles, split open, swollen, and bruised from his disagreement with the wall. 

 

“Your husband sent me,” John said, sitting down next to him and passing him his phone. “You forgot this.”

 

“I didn’t forget shit. I left it.” James corrected him, even as he snatched the phone out of his hand. 

 

“Tomato, Tomahto,” John said with a shrug, watching him. James’ eyes were red, the skin around them raw from either his hands rubbing at them, tears, or both. “He’s worried about you.”

 

“Shouldn’t have fucking roped you into it-”

 

“He didn’t, I offered.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I give a least a fraction of a shit, apparently.” 

 

James was tense for a moment, a cornered cat ready to lash out. But slowly John watched him relax, his shoulders dropping as he hung his head between his arms, not meeting John’s gaze. He looked awful, clever eyes haunted, lips chewed raw, and John wanted to hold him, or at least rest a hand on his back to comfort him. But he half expected to lose his hand if he tried. 

 

“Didn’t know you smoked,” he said after a while, watching as the cigarette slowly burned away in James’ hand.

 

“If Thomas asks, I don’t,” James replied, lifting his head slowly he looked from the cigarette to John, and offered it to him. “Do you?”

 

John took it from him. “If Max asks, no.” But he took a drag from it, aware of James watching him, before passing it back.

 

James hummed, almost amused, and turned his eyes back to the waves in front of him. “Sorry. For snapping at you.”

 

“It’s alright.” John shrugged it off. “You look like shit, by the way.”

 

James snorted, pulling out his phone so he could finally check the messages from Thomas, sending him a quick text of apology. “I feel like it too.”

 

“Yeah the beers at noon kinda gave me that idea… Wanna talk about it?”

 

“No.” James said flatly. He passed John the cigarette again.

 

“Alright.”

 

They sat there in silence for a while, as James worked his way through his second beer and John helped him finish the cigarette. They watched the two old men pass by again, arguing about the bottle caps they found, they watched as the lady doing yoga packed up her things. Or at least, John watched them. James kept his eyes fixed on the waves ahead, as if they held all the answer he needed.

 

“Never pictured you as a beach kid,” John said, pulling out his own abused pack of cigarettes and lighting one for them to share. He didn’t expect James to answer him, not with the apparent state he was in.

 

So he was surprised when James took the cigarette when he offered it and hummed softly.

 

“It’s my earliest memory.”

 

“What is?”

 

“The sea.” James took a drag and watched the waves, as John watched the smoke curl around his face. “Couldn’t have been more than three or four but it’s the earliest memory I have. Couldn’t fucking tell you where I was or who I was with but- I remember the water, cold as it was. I remember the sound of the waves on the jetty and the call of seabirds, the ever present roar in the distance. The smell of it. The taste.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

James nodded. “Only sense of home I ever had in the end, being by the sea. Stupid, I now.”

 

“That why you joined the Navy?”

 

“No one joins the navy to be at sea, kid. You join the navy because it’s either that or poverty, or you’re one of those fucks with a overly patriotic stick up yer ass.”

 

John tried not to smile at the way James’ accent grew heavier as he talked. “So, same as it is here then.”

 

“Probably. None of the men I served with joined because they had fucking- ideas of grandeur. It paid the bills, it got you room and board and three meals a day. And by that point, if you were considering enlisting, your soul was already fucked so selling it to queen and country was easy.” James sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Being at sea was the only good thing about it.”

 

“How long were you in?”

 

“Officially fifteen years. Unofficially almost twenty.”

 

“Unofficially?”

 

“Youth recruiting programs. I started at fifteen.”

 

“Jesus.”

 

James laughed weakly. “Yeah. yeah…” 

 

“That doesn’t exactly sound… healthy?”

 

“It wasn’t. By any means. None of it was.”

 

“Then why did you stay on so long?”

 

James sighed and rubbed at his eyes. “I had my reasons.”

 

“Oh that I don’t doubt but-” John caught his hand as James passed him the cigarette. “This”- he nodded to the damage James’ had done to his knuckles- “looks like the kind of coping methods you learn in the Navy.” 

 

James looked at his knuckles, then up at John’s eyes, and John was struck by how haunted he looked. 

 

“Not the Navy. In the Navy you don’t have feelings. You simply function, as much of a machine as the ship you’re stationed on.” He said softly.

 

“Then this?”

 

“This started before the Navy,” James said, taking his hand back and finishing his beer with a wince. “Not even queen and fucking country could beat it out of me.”

 

It scared John, how easily James talked about so self destructive a habit, how easy it was for him to just explain away a life of what John could only imagine was hell. But he managed a smile, eerily aware of his own demons rearing their heads at the sight of James’.

 

“Have you eaten today?” he asked and James shook his head. “How about we go back to Manhattan. We get ice on your hands before they’re fucked up for good, you call Thomas and let him know you’re alright, and I make empanadas for lunch.”

 

“Don’t you have shit to do?” James asked.

 

“Yeah, this.” John replied. 

 

He knew it was crazy, he knew there was a chance he was probably shooting himself in his one good foot by choosing to look after James over his two thirty interview in Chelsea. But something about it felt right. 

 

It took a moment, James finishing the cigarette as he stared at the waves.

 

“Fine,” he said at last, getting his feet under him so he could stand. He helped John up and grabbed his dress shirt, not bothering to put it back on. John hadn’t really given much thought to what James wore to work, but dress shirts hadn’t really seemed his thing. The tank top he wore under it, however, suited him, showing enough of his freckled skin and hinting at the tattoos on his chest and back to peak John’s curiosity again. The heavy fish hook sat around his throat, like it had the night of the party, and John wondered about it. He didn’t ask, but he wondered.

 

The ride back across town was silent, James reading through the messages from Thomas again, texting Billy a short apology, one that John was sure contained the words  _ fuck off mom _ , if watching James’ fingers gave away any clues. 

 

In the kitchen of the brownstone John got ice into little ziplock bags, while James sat at the kitchen island and moped. He wrapped them in paper towels and grabbed the medical tape from the first aid kit James had produced.

 

“Let me see your hands.”

 

James kept his head resting on the counter, refusing to look at John while he worked. John cleaned the dried blood off his hands and checked for any damage that meant they needed to go to the ER. But he didn’t feel any broken bones, just abused skin and bruises that were going to last a few weeks at best. When he was done he taped the makeshift ice packs to James’ hands, smiling faintly at the muttered curses it drew from his unofficial patient. 

 

“Feel alright?” he asked, watching as James’ ears turned red.

 

James just grunted in reply, so John took it as a yes.

 

“Cool. I’m going to raid your kitchen, in twenty minutes lunch should be ready,” he said, pulling off the cardigan he was wearing, not wanting to get it dirty. Ody joined them, sitting loyally by James’ side, his head in James’ lap, oddly content even if his dad couldn’t pet him.

 

John half ignored James while he worked, making the dough and the filling for the empanadas from memory. It was the first thing he’d learned to cook on his own and really the only thing he couldn’t fuck up. Now and then he’d glance over his shoulder to find him still sitting exactly where John had left him, face pressed into the cold granite of the counter like a child, moving now and then to check his phone when it vibrated. 

 

He had questions, questions upon questions, as he set a plate of hot food in front of James and nudged him until he lifted his head and muttered a bitter thank you. He wanted to know who Henessy was, wanted to know why he haunted James like a ghost, wanted to know why James’ first instinct was to punch a hole in the fucking wall instead of cry-

 

He wanted to know what he could do. He wanted to know where his place was, in putting James back together. For now, at this distance where James kept him, his place was to wait patiently, to make sure he didn’t completely destroy himself before Thomas got home, before Thomas could piece him back together again as a husband was meant to. 

 

That wasn’t John’s role in this. It wasn’t his job, it wasn’t his right, to sit at James’ side and guide him through the dark. And he knew that, objectively, as he shared the food with James in silence. He knew that, it went part and parcel with the line in the sand he refused to ignore.

 

But a part of him wanted more, more than just being the audience for James’ misery. He wanted to know the demons that caused them. He wanted to face them the way he couldn’t face his own.

 

And wasn’t that an emotional kick in the teeth.

 

They finished eating, John’s two thirty interview long since past and James settled back into his moping position. His head rested on the counter, hands effectively numb by the second set of ice packs John had taped to his knuckles. John was cleaning up the mess he’d made when James’ cell started to ring, hopping around on the granite countertop to get his attention. John watched, trying not to laugh, as James dragged his hand across the counter to try and find the phone, not bothering to lift his head. He smacked at the screen until with a beep the call connected via speakerphone and James turned his face up so his voice could be heard.

 

“What?”

 

John raised an eyebrow at the sharp laugh that answered.

 

“Damn I knew you’d be bitchy during celibacy,” a young woman’s voice said. “But not this bitchy. Are you just wearing a plug till he gets home cause you sound like you are-”

 

“The fuck do you want El?” James asked, forcing himself to sit up. John was surprised to see the hint of a smile beneath his moustache.

 

“There’s a gig tonight at Hal’s. Opener is at six, show goes till midnight unless they suck.”

 

“And?”

 

“And I expect to see you there.”

 

James rolled his eyes. “Do you lil’ Miss Guthrie?”

 

John stared at him. He’d seen James keeping Max’s ex, and apparently Charles’ ex, company at the party, but he hadn’t exactly thought them friends. Especially not the kind of friends that gave each other shit the way they were. 

 

“You aren’t getting fucked so you clearly don’t have plans tonight.” Eleanor said dryly. Then there was a moment of hesitation. “And I kind of-”

 

John watched as James’ posture changed, the lethargy of depression easing out of him in exchange for tense shoulders and furrowed brow.

 

“El?” he asked.

 

“I need someone there to make sure I don’t skip out,” she said finally.

 

“... Your ex is gonna be there.” James looked up at John with a wary expression, one that John returned.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Is it Strap-on or Scissors?”

 

“Strap-on.”

 

“Ah.” James rubbed at his eyes. “You said six?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Who’s playing?”

 

Jahn watched them, fascinated as they casually argued the merit of whatever two bands were performing that night, a pair of punk groups apparently that John had never heard of. He wasn’t sure if he should ask, about the ex. Max wasn’t the type to go to a punk show, Charles on the other hand was. But no doubt Eleanor had other Exes. John had gotten a good long look at her at the party, and even he could step back and see her for the gorgeous, albeit terrifying woman she was.

 

He blinked when James waved to get his attention.

 

“Huh?”

 

James held up a napkin he’d tried to write his question on-  _ Come with? _

 

He’d already thrown away the most important part of his day, what harm could a night on the town do?

 

John nodded and James, always surprising him, beamed.

 

“We’ll be there,” he told eleanor.

 

“We?”

 

“Well if things go well I’m not gonna just sit by my lonesome am I?”

 

“I didn’t think you had any friends.”

 

“Cute.”

 

They had a little over an hour and a half to get ready and be there John realized, as he dried the last of the dishes. He wasn’t exactly dressed for a punk show, in a white t-shirt and jeans, but he supposed it’d do.

 

“Oh, and while you’re at it-” Eleanor added before they hung up. “May as well make good on that bet.”

 

James sighed. “Seriously?”

 

“Well either you wear em, or I get a hundred bucks worth of drinks, it’s your call babe. You sound like you don’t like wearing them-”

 

“I’ll see you around six ya shit,” James said, hanging up on Eleanor’s sharp laughter. 

 

“I didn’t realize you and Max’s ex were close,” John said, drying his hands.

 

“Eh, I wouldn’t say we’re close. We just- get each other, ya know?” He said, stretching with a groan. He stood from the stool, slowly peeling off the tape and the ice packs.

 

“You guys met through Thomas?”

 

“Nah, met her at a bar. This bar, the one we’re going to, in fact.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yeah, I watched her break a dude’s jaw for groping her on the dance floor,” James smiled and John could see the touch of pride in it. “It was excellent.” 

 

John could only imagine, but it suited the few short stories Max had told him about Eleanor. He settled in the living room as James went upstairs to change. He thought about texting his sister, to see if she was going to a show tonight. But he thought better of it. Max had never truly confided in him about her romantic life, unless it was going well. And with things at the current stage of “complicated” he was pretty sure she’d hang up on him if he so much as said Eleanor’s name.

 

He played with the cats while he waited, letting them bat and chase his curls until he heard the sound of boots in the hall over half an hour later. John stood with a teasing smile, Shakespeare trotting out to the hall to greet James as he appeared.

 

“There you are, I was wondering how long a damn shower could-”

 

James raised an eyebrow at him, waiting for him to finish. 

 

John couldn’t, his tongue was stuck, his jaw slack, as he stared at James, his eyes not knowing where to look first. The eyebrow that was arched in judgement as pierced with a little silver hoop, a matching ring in James’ nose. Two more framed his bottom lip, and John felt his mouth go dry as he watched them move with James’ wry grin.

 

And then there was his tight black band t-shirt, some ridiculous album artwork with griffons and lions on it peeking out from under his leather Jacket. John wouldn’t take the risk of looking lower than James’ belt, knowing full well that if he even tried he’d end up staring at how the tight gray denim hugged his thighs for the rest of the night. So he just stared, trying to find his useless wits, while James watched him struggle.

 

“What?” James asked.

 

“Ah- you uhm-” John waved his hand at his own face, to try and indicate the piercings.

 

James huffed a laugh and rolled his eyes, reaching up to pull back his hair. “Please, you’re from fucking California, kid. I’m sure you’ve seen stranger body mods than snakebites.”

 

“I just- that was the last thing I expected-” John grabbed his bag, as James found his keys. “Ya know with- the whole Navy thing-”

 

“I got em before I joined up.”

 

“They let you keep them?”

 

“Nah, I got em redone when I retired.”

 

“Why?”

 

James just shrugged, but the look in his eyes told John there was more of an explanation than he was willing to offer. “Wanted to. I wear clear studs at work most days, to keep em open.”

 

“Huh,” John couldn’t help staring a little, as he followed James to the subway. “Well they- they suit you, oddly enough.”

 

He didn’t want to think too hard about the sharp smile that got him, or the way James’ ears turned read at the mild praise. 

 

The bar was in Chelsea, James said, an old place he’d been going for years. He knew the owner, a friend from way back who’d given up on his corporate job to open a dive bar instead. Now and then he’d host bands, local kids who were looking for a bit of hometown support, or the occasional bigger name who wanted the chance to connect with the audience without the drama of an arena.

 

Mostly, The Walrus served as a fairly low key gay bar, lacking the high strung energy of some of the other venues in the neighborhood. But then, from what James told him about the owner, it seemed to fit. This Hal, James said, was more like an exasperated single mother than the owner of a watering hole. 

 

Eleanor stood smoking outside, dressed very differently from her elegant green suit. Her tank top was distressed with care, her jeans well loved and covered in stitches and patches to keep them together. She looked like an entirely different person from the pulled together lawyer John had watched from across the room.

 

“Whos this?” she asked when she caught sight of them, looking John over as she took a drag from her cigarette. “You adopt a poodle while Thomas is gone?”

 

“This is John,” James said, snatching the cigarette from her. “Your ex’s brother. So be nice.”

 

Eleanor stared at John and he felt like he was being assessed by yet another predator. “The one from California?” she asked.

 

“That’s me,” John replied, holding her gaze. He didn’t have much of an opinion of her, aside from general mistrust given how the falling out between her and Max had more or less gone, and the brief mention of her ambition from Charles. Something about shacking up with a legal intern she’d met at law school. If she was trying to reconnect with Max though, maybe she’d finally tossed him aside.

 

Eleanor hummed softly, taking the cigarette back from James, who turned towards the door of the bar. “How’d you end up with this Jackass?”

 

“Dumb luck I guess,” John said with a shrug and it got the faintest of smiles from her, as she crushed the butt of the cigarette under her heel, tossing it into the nearest trash can. They followed James inside, John looking around to take it all in. He’d only been to a few gay bars back in LA, on a visit. They’d been all neon lights and heady music, like stepping through the mirror to wonderland. 

 

This felt more like the bars Jack liked, chipped paint on the walls that were dotted here and there with pictures and pride memorabilia. The tables had been moved into a crescent shape around the center of the Bar, a handful of patrons already present as the stage was prepped for the first band. It felt comfortable, not trying to meet anyone’s standards. It just was.

 

“Hey, McGraw, been a few months,” the bartender said, as James dropped onto a barstool. Eleanor stood on his left, John settling onto the stool on his right, watching as the bartender fixed two drinks without really looking. He set a vodka on the rocks in front of Eleanor, and a scotch in front of James.

 

“Work’s been hectic. Get him a cider, Dooley,” James said, nodding to John. “My tab.”

 

“Yessir,” the bartender nodded, grabbing a cold bottle from the fridge under the bar and setting it in front of John. John thanked him, and watched as he grabbed the phone that hung behind the bar, making a quick call.

 

“Alright, ya fuck, lemme see-” 

 

John looked over to find Eleanor holding James’ chin, assessing the piercings in his face with a critical gaze. He watched, amused, as James looked entirely unimpressed. Finally she let him go and scoffed.

 

“Snakebites count as one, so technically you owe me. That’s three I count, you said you had four. And if your nipples are pierced they don’t count cause I can’t see em.” She said flatly, sipping her drink.

 

James rolled his jaw a moment and grinned, his teeth caught on a silver stud that sat on his tongue. He held up four fingers as Eleanor raised her eyebrows, before flipping her off. John tried his best not to choke on his drink-  _ he had a fucking tongue stud, god help him _ .

 

“Huh,” Eleanor said, before waving Dooley down and telling him to switch the drinks to her tab, the bet apparently settled. “Never saw the appeal of those.”

 

“Of what? The tongue stud?” James asked, sipping his scotch.

 

“Yeah. They just seemed, I dunno, a bit extra.”

 

“Which is surprising, really.” James propped his chin on his hand. “Of all the people I know I’d expect you to be considering one.”

 

“Why?” Eleanor asked with a frown, as John took a drink.

 

“Well with as much pussy as you apparently eat on the regular I’d have expected it to come up by now,” James said dryly and John spat out his cider, wheezing to try and breathe.

 

Eleanor scoffed, shaking her head with a laugh. “Fair-”

 

“Well,” a voice cut in, and John turned too look as he wiped his face. “I thought I recognized that filth when I heard it.”

 

The man who approached them was only a touch taller than John, robust and bald, with a well trimmed beard that made his smile seem brighter. He was dressed casually, with a t-shirt bearing the Bar’s name and logo that introduced him as Hal, the owner. John would admit to being a bit surprised, he wasn’t exactly what he had pictured. But what surprised him more was the way James reacted to seeing him. 

 

James turned at the sound of his voice, and his whole face brightened, the tension that had been firmly knotted in his shoulders gone the instant he saw him. He looked younger, in that moment, younger and far less damaged than the man John was getting to know. 

 

“C’mere you,” Hal said, and James slipped off his stool, letting the man pull him into a tight hug. “It’s been three goddamn months, ya shit. Where the hell have you been?”

 

John didn’t hear James’ reply, it was muffled by the way he pressed his face into Hal’s shoulder like a child. Hal heard him easy enough, and didn’t seem at all bothered with having a grown man cling to him.

 

“Yeah I’ve missed you too kid.” he said, running a hand over James’ hair. “C’mon, let me look at you- three goddamn months its a miracle you’re still standing.”

 

“Thomas does his best,” James said on a shrug, and John thought he saw spots of wetness on his face. “I’m- sorry. Shit’s been a bit hectic at work and I-”

 

Hal flicked his nose and cupped his face in tattooed hands. “Hush. Life happens Jamie. I’m just glad to see you. Even though you look like shit.” His brow furrowed as he looked James over. “What’s happened?”

 

James didn’t answer him, not vocally. He just shrugged and Hal took a look at the haphazard bandages on his split knuckles, clicking his tongue at the bruises and getting an apparent answer from the state of them.

 

“I see. Dooley got you a drink? Good,” Hal said when James nodded. “Now stop being rude and introduce me to your curly haired friend.” 

 

John fidgeted as James settled back onto his stool and Hal kissed Eleanor’s cheek in greeting.

 

“I’m John,” he said, when James didn’t speak up, and he shook Hal’s hand with a smile. 

 

“Good to meet you.” Hal said, standing a step behind them, keeping a hand on James’ back as he spoke. “I take it Jamie and Ellie dragged you along?”

 

“Is my lack of punk culture that obvious?” John asked, jokingly waving at is plain clothes.

 

Hal laughed. “Nah, this one just never brings a friend along,” he said, rubbing James’ back.

 

“It’s cause he doesn’t have any Hal,” Eleanor said, dodging James hand as he reached to mess up her hair. “Well except for the poodle here apparently.” She cursed as the door to the bar opened and downed her drink. “Fuck-”

 

Hal and James looked up and made twin sounds of understanding. “Ah, the ex arrives.”

 

Eleanor looked honestly scared, as she slipped off her stool and moved through the growing crowd to meet the new arrival. John craned his neck to see and was surprised to find Charles waiting for her, looking equally uneasy.

 

“You her wingmen tonight?” Hal asked as they watched the two of them find a small table in the corner.

 

“Something like that,” James said, leaning into Hal. “That, and I needed a distraction. Needed-”

 

“I know Jamie.” Hal said softly, and James seemed to relax further as his friend took the stool eleanor had abandoned. “So, you’re the friend who got dragged along?”

 

“He didn’t drag me along- I’m visiting, from California. Wanted to make sure I saw as much of the city as possible before I left. And I’ve never been to a bar show,” John said with a shrug, aware of James’ eyes on him. “So I thought it’d be worth a try.”

 

“And I’m sure it had nothing to do with you being the one fixing this mess, hm?” Hal asked, the hand not on James’ back waving at the state of James’ hands. James grumbled, not meeting either of their gazes.

 

“I take no credit, technically he bandaged them up himself. I just got him the ice,” John said, like it was nothing, sipping his drink.

 

James rolled his eyes and made to argue, but his phone buzzed in his pocket. “Give me a sec-” he said, heading for the door as he answered. “Hey Thomas-”

 

Hal and John watched him until he was outside. Then Hal turned his gaze to John.

 

“How’d you two meet, John from California?”

 

“Got dragged by a mutual friend to his husband’s party,” John explained. “James and I hid from the other guests and argued the quality of pop culture. Why?”

 

Hal shrugged. “Call it curiosity. Not once has Jamie turned up with a friend, save for Eleanor. He doesn’t even bring his husband by that often. So I can only guess there’s a story there.”

 

“How’d you two meet?” John asked in turn. “You seem close.”

 

“James was stationed outside the city for a few months, some kind of exchange program the US Navy was running with the Royal one. He wandered in here one night, looking like hell. We got to talking.”

 

“Really?”

 

Hal showed him the naval crest he has tattooed on the inside of his forearm. “I’d been in his shoes once, helped break the ice so to speak. He came back when he could, those months, and after he left we just did our best to keep in touch.”

 

“You were the one who took him to the Hamilton’s halloween party,” John remembered, from the story Thomas had told him.

 

Hal laughed. “Yeah, that was me. I’d met Mrs Hamilton a few times, she passed through here and there. She extended the invitation to me the year before and I’d gone, had a good time. And I knew, when Jamie was visiting, that it was probably the right kind of chaos he needed.”

 

“Clearly you were right, considering he married said chaos.”

 

“I’ve not got many talents, but reading people is one of them.” He looked John over. “Which lends itself to a constant curiosity when I meet a new face alongside an old familiar one.”

 

“Ha, well, I hate to disappoint, but I’m rather dull,” John said, finishing his cider.

 

“James doesn’t have much patience for dull,” Hal mused. “Or much patience for people in general. He prefers his books, his charcoals, his dog, to the company of his fellows. So there must be some reason you’re here with him.”

 

“His husband was worried about him, he asked me to check in, and things lead to me tagging along tonight. That’s all. See? Dull.”

 

“Tom asked you? Huh.”

 

John shot him a look. “What.”

 

“Nothing. Tom’s just- “ Hal made a face. “How do I put this-”

 

“Exhausting?”

 

“A possessive bastard.”

 

John frowned, as Hal watched him with a smile. Sure, Thomas could come off as a tad much, a tad controlling but John hadn’t really-

 

Well, if he let himself think back to that Sunday morning, maybe he could see where Hal was coming from. 

 

“You might say there’s a particular niche of gay men he fits rather well, where Jamie is concerned. It’s part of why I was as nervous about him dating Tom in the beginning as I was relieved.” Hal continued, reaching over the bar to pour himself a drink. “Possessive is a very thin line in people, one wrong step and it becomes something grotesque and dangerous. Tom, thankfully, never took that misstep. And here we are.”

 

“He- I was just the only option, that’s all. I’m sure he’d have asked, what’s his name, Billy, to check on him if Billy could have left work,” John argued weakly. 

 

“Billy’s a sweet boy but he has no desire to get messed up in Jamie’s personal life, he’s made that more than clear to Tom.”

 

“You know Billy too?”

 

“I sent him Jamie’s way, once he got started in school. Good kid, bit too naive sometimes, but a good kid. Still, not the kind of person Tom would send to check on his husband. You should count yourself lucky,” Hal said, patting his shoulder.

 

“Why’s that?” And John was wary of his answer.

 

“Some people are impossible to reach, they keep themselves as isolated as possible from the rest of the world. Jamie is one of them, for good reason. Took over a year for him and I to sort out an actual friendship. I’d say Tom is too but he thrives on the high of society in a way I’ve not seen others do, damn extrovert. But people like them have a very small circle of people, so small it borders on unhealthy in some cases, that are allowed to glimpse what sits behind the mask.”

Hal shrugged. “If you did in fact ice his knuckles, after he no doubt put a hole in a wall somewhere because his history reared its ugly fucking head, you’ve now joined me and Miss Miranda in their very, very small circle of companions.”

 

It was terrifying, the notion that maybe he really did mean something to James, to Thomas, when his future was so uncertain, when his very identity was nothing more than a few dozen lies and masks of his own. His heart said to argue, to lie and tell Hal that he wasn’t one of those rare few, that he was just some fuck who’d been in the right place at the right time.

 

But Hal’s eyes were dark, a stormy gray that made John feel oddly small, his gaze as firm as the hand on John’s shoulder, and John’s weak argument keeled over before it could even voice itself.

 

“I- I can’t tell if this is a warning or a welcome,” John said at last. “If it’s the shovel talk or something entirely different…”

 

Hal smiled softly. “I don’t see you hurting Jamie, not on purpose. And if you do believe me I’m the least of your concerns then. So, if you want, you can see it as a welcome. He- he needs people, despite what he tells himself. He needs good people.” 

 

John wanted to be that, wanted to be a spot of good in James’ life. But he’d never been a spot of good in anyone’s life, and the idea of having to fulfill that role now terrified him.

 

“Well, if he’ll let me-”

 

“Gossiping Hal? Really?” James asked, and John felt his heart rabbit in his chest. He hadn’t heard him come back in, not with the growing noise in the bar. “That’s not nice.”

 

“So I wanted to be entertained while you made goo-goo eyes over the phone at your hubby, sue me kid.” Hal rolled his eyes and it got a laugh out of James, who kissed the top of Hal’s head. “How’s Tom?”

 

“Considering setting DC on Fire.”

 

“Oh he’d be doing us all one helluva favor-”

 

John was content not to be dragged back into the conversation, still reeling from what Hal had told him, how Hal had easily read him in so short a time. He was content to watch them, the way James leaned on Hal, his arms around the other man’s shoulders as they bantered back and forth about the time that had passed since their last drink together. It was easier, far easier than coming to terms with the possibility of mattering to someone. 

 

The show began at half past six the first band some local twenty somethings trying to fine tune their sound. They were angry and broken and even from his seat at the bar John could feel the pulse of their wounds as if they were his own. The crowd picked up on their lyrics, did their best to sing along when prompted, or simply clapped along with the bass line or the drum beat. It was a quiet kind of support, the kind that echoed around the room and created its own heart beat before John’s eyes. 

He gave them as much attention as he could, for the hour and a half they played their set. The rest of his focus was spent on watching James out of the corner of his eye. He sat close to Hal, talking low enough that his voice was lost to the music. Hal’s arm, stretched along the bar behind James, half rested against his back, letting him trace absent minded patterns of comfort into the fabric of James’ shirt while he listened. 

And god did he listen. John had seen a lot of people, who seemed like the counselor type, the type to sit and let you talk for hours on end until all that was left were the ashes needed for catharsis and rebirth. Anne had the capacity for it some days, usually well after sundown when her own ghosts were trying to be heard. Charles too, oddly, could sit and listen for hours if you set a six pack on the table. Sure it took a beer or two, but suddenly you were graced with the soft spoken words you needed to hear in order to drag yourself out of the depths he’d come to know so well over the years.

 

But Hal Gates was another matter entirely and it made John grieve for Solomon as he watched them. 

 

Hal kept his head tilted so James could speak to his ear if he wanted, kept his eyes soft and his mouth shut until his words were asked for. He kept his hand moving across James’ back with the same slow rhythm of the tide, coaxing the words from him when they began to fail with so much care. Now and then John would see his other hand reach for James’, see him inspect the damage done to his knuckles in the dim light of the bar. He’d speak softly then, as if guiding James through some sort of prayer, and James would press closer in silence. Eventually they both fell silent, James absently watching the band on stage, his head on Hal’s shoulder.

 

Solomon had been that way with John once. Maple had been there to comfort Max, but Solomon had been there to curl under the covers with John, holding a flashlight while John read him his attempts at story writing. He’d sit and watch John pace back and forth across their dust bowl of a yard, watch as John’s too thin chest heaved for air as the anger at some classmate or another, or maybe it was always just anger at the world, bled from his lips. He’d watched as John went still, watch him cry, before slowly pulling him down to the plywood seat next to him so they could sift through the ashes together. 

 

Since losing him John had gotten very good at never needing a second set of hands to help him with his ashes. He imagined James was very much the same, nine times out of ten. But seeing him like this, seeing him willing and ready to figuratively bleed out on the floor of Hal’s bar, knowing that the only thing that waited for him was a strong drink and soft words of rebirth-

 

John was struck rather brutally, by the sight of love in it. 

 

Not the raw passionate chaos of love that James clearly shared with Thomas. Not the soft, unspoken, unending devotion between Anne and Jack, not the desperate “don’t go” that his sister shared with Anne. He’d seen enough of those variants of love over the years, it was the only kind of love he could find at times. There was nothing wrong with them, but as with anything, you saw too much of one type, heard too much, and you forgot other kinds of love existed. 

 

Simple love. Sunday morning kind of love. Leaves notes in your lunch box, a careful hand fixing your hair, fingers wiping away empty tears, unconditional, endless, simple love. The kind that at heart was so complex and mystifying to some that they wrote books of ballads and verse to try and capture it for themselves- but was so simple all the same. The kind of simple love that weathered all the storms that life could conjure and rested at the core of all other forms of love, hiding behind an endless variety of masks. 

 

John didn’t know what history sat in the careful touch of Hal’s hand on James’ hair. He didn’t know what spoken truths and broken promises lay in the crook of his arm around James’ shoulders, or in the joints of James’ fingers as they held onto Hal’s shirt. He didn’t know, he’d never know, even if James told him everything. Simple love was the greatest secret keeper the world over, it’d carry their story until all that was left of them were their names-

 

But John would know that in some form, no matter what name was given to it, they loved each other. And in the end, nothing else mattered. 

 

Save perhaps that John could feel his own tattered heart aching for the same, calling quietly for the same attention that he’d denied himself for as long as he could remember. 

 

James’ eyes fell on him, as the kids wrapped up their performance. They were red and weary in the barlight, but clear for the first time that day, as if he was seeing something in John he hadn’t before. John could see Hal speaking, softly, nearly a secret against James’ ear. He didn’t know what was said, but watched out of the corner of his eye as James seemed to make a decision, a series of emotions flickering across his features when he though only Hal was looking. John wanted to name them all.

 

The second band, a punk crew from Wessex James’ had said, appeared, getting their bearings and helping the stage hands prepare for their set. As the crowd shifted, filling the floor in front of the stage more completely, John realized that Charles and Eleanor were no longer present. He hoped he wouldn’t find Charles torn apart again, when he finally made his was back to Weehawken. 

 

“Hey.”

 

John looked over when James spoke to see Hal walking away with his phone to his ear. James looked, with distance between them again, more like the man John recognized. But there was that softness in his face, the kind John had only seen around Thomas, and just now with Hal. The softness never quite directed at him.

 

“Hey yourself,” John said with a smile. “You good?”

 

James nodded, finishing his drink and waving away the second Dooley offered to make. “Sorry.”

 

“For what?”

 

“I didn’t realize how long Hal and I’d been talking. Didn’t- I’m told it’s rude to effectively forget your guest.” James shrugged and tucked a piece of hair behind his ear. 

 

“You needed it. It’s fine,” John replied. “I get it, trust me. Besides he seemed- he seems pretty great.”

 

“He is. Next time, if you want, we can come when there isn’t a show?” Jams offered, and that pesky next time was soft and almost hopeful. “If you want to get to know him a bit?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah Maybe.”

 

It got a smile from James, or nearly did, a shy twist at the corner of his mouth. He slipped off his stool and stretched, before offering his arm to John.

 

“C’mon, these guys are better up close.”

 

John hesitated, but climbed off the stool and took his arm. “I don’t dance-”

 

“Neither do I,” James told him, guiding him out into the crowd holding John’s hand tight so he wouldn’t lose him. 

 

John allowed himself to lead through the dark mass of people, let James pull him close with hands on his hips as they found a good spot in front of the stage, a few rows back. He was hyper aware of James standing behind him, the crowd keeping them close as people packed in. The lights dimmed again, the stage illuminated in gold and green before them. The singer stepped forward, his voice clipped the way James’ was with an accent that tickled John’s ears. John watched them, eyes fixed on the way the man’s hands held his guitar, on the mandolin to his left, the bass to his right, as the opening chords echoed around them to the pulse of the crowd’s voices. He felt James’ hands squeeze his hips as the song started and John forgot how to breathe. 

Between the way James was pressed against his back and the energy of the band that seeped into the crowd, John lost himself. He lost track of how many songs were performed, he lost track of how much time had passed, he lost track of everything except the physical sensations overwhelming him. They didn’t dance, not really, not in the way John was used to. The crowd found the rhythm of the music, found the pulse of the drums and adopted it as their own heartbeat, moving with it and the fire in the singer’s voice and John moved with them. He rocked on his feet, felt James press against his back as he did the same, felt James’ hands on his ribs as they moved-

 

John closed his eyes and let the sensations set fire to his nerves, let himself drown in it as the voice of the crowd pitched higher, louder, raw and aching and burning for something more. It was a new kind of high for him. Close to the kind he felt on stage, close to the sweet smoke in his lungs when the words spilled onto paper and echoed around a theater, but all together something glorious and new. And John was sure, no matter how much it scared him, that the weight of James’ hands on his body was as much a part of it as the soul that hit the microphone. 

 

They stumbled out of the bar well after midnight, James having kissed Hal goodbye with a smile that put the moon overhead to shame. Hal had pulled John in for a hug of his own, making him promise to come back soon before he was willing to let John go. John followed James through the dark, listening to him hum the songs they’d spent the night wrapped up in, watching him in wonder.

 

James’ shoulders were loose, his hair down, his steps easy and languid with the peace that came from a night of letting go. He was beautiful, he was always beautiful to John, but god if peace wasn’t a good look on his wartorn body. 

 

He lead them to a diner a few blocks away, the old kind that never closed and welcomed all the midnight monsters of the city. John let him order their food, two plates of breakfast fare and a pot of coffee to get them back to the east side of town once they were done. 

 

“Have fun then?” John asked, when he remembered his voice, the waiter leaving them to wait for their food.

 

James nodded, rolling his shoulders and flexing his fingers to test the ache in them. “Haven’t been to a show in a while. Thanks, for tagging along. Probably wouldn’t have gone without someone to follow me there.”

 

“I didn’t have anything better waiting for me,” John said with a shrug. Technically, he sort of did. His monologues weren’t going to edit themselves and he had yet to start his new piece. But it all seemed lackluster and unimportant when compared to witnessing this new side of James. 

 

“I think that’s a load of bull roar,” James replied. “But- thank you. All the same.”

 

“Anytime,” John heard himself say. And what’s worse, he was pretty sure he meant it.

 

By the time they’d finished their meal and slipped back out into the chilly predawn october air, the faintest whispers of sunrise crept overhead. James stood on the corner, staring up at them for a moment.

 

“How’re you feeling?” he asked John, and there was a touch of vulnerability in his voice.

 

“Solid.” he wasn’t all that tired, the coffee would keep him running on a little more than fumes for a bit longer. “Why?”

 

“... up for a walk?” James asked, looking over at him as he pulled up his hair. “There’s a great spot in the park to watch the sunrise from.” 

 

John pretended to mull it over for a moment, digging out his pack of cigarettes and lighting one for them to share as James watched him. Then he offered his arm, the way James’ had in the bar, and smiled.

 

“Lead on, Captain,” he said and he watched a strange expression cross James’ features for a moment. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced with a tired, shy smile as James hooked arms with him, and turned them north to the nearest subway station. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John should have been watching the sunrise, but he couldn’t look away from James. The feeling of want was creeping up again, of wanting that simple love he’d seen, of that courage that had seemed so effortless when James had showed his hand. It crept up with so sudden a force that John had trouble breathing. 
> 
> He wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY PATRON SAINT OF THE PLAGUE DAY - also known as valentines day please accept this short and meager update
> 
> WE'RE GETTING SOMEWHERE FOLKS THE FUN IS ABOUT TO BEGIN
> 
> On a more serious note- minor trigger warnings for a description of a car crash and for really fucking shitty parenting and allusion to abuse. I wish it could be avoided but these boys are all shades of fucked up so.
> 
> This Chapter was meant to be my interpretation, in a sense, of the fireside chat James and John have in S3, when James bares his soul and comes out to John. Obvs that wouldn't make as much sense in a modern au where he's very clearly queer, so instead we have shifted the focus to his past, and what little about John's past he is willing to talk about. I hope it's not too monologue-ish and not too sappy (warning its very fuckin sappy)
> 
> I really do appreciate the patience you all have had with this, I started a new job in a new industry literally on New Years day and my life is semi in shambles (technically good shambles) as I try to overhaul my whole lifestyle to keep up with the new job (being up at four am every morning is not easy). My hope is that things are beginning to settle and I can get more work done here. 
> 
> and final note- I love Jack Rackham, pretty raccoon prince, with all my heart
> 
> Have fun and I hope to have an update for you all again soon. Please feel free to drop a line with questions, comments, or general hellos.

 

*

 

 

Very little was said on the short ride to the outskirts of the park, James sitting next to John, their shoulders touching despite the empty seats around them. But when they set out on the lamp lit paths, James’ demeanor seemed to shift. Again, John was faced with the soft side of him that had come out in Hal’s presence earlier that evening.

“You- You asked what had happened,” James said carefully. “Earlier and I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“You did. Which is fair. I don’t really like talking about my shit days either,” John pointed out.

“It was brought to my attention that it- isn’t exactly fair. Having you clean up my mess and not explain why the mess happened in the first place.”

“I don’t expect a lifetime special every time some shit happens, James. I don’t, really.”

James glanced at him. “I also… find myself wanting to explain. If you’ll humor me?” He offered his arm again, hands tucked into the pockets of his Jacket.

John nodded and hooked his arm with James’. “Always.”

It wasn’t immediate, but slowly, James started to talk.

His father had called him that morning. They hadn’t spoken in almost three years.

He wasn’t really his father, though, despite it all.

He was a man named Henessy, who’d found James picking pockets at thirteen years old and saw some making of greatness in him, or so he’d said way back then on the edge of a canal. He’d confronted James’ grandfather not long after, an old drunk who barely remembered he had a grandson unless he was angry, and somehow, someway James had found himself packing up his meager belongings and following Henessy to central London.

He had never properly adopted him, just filed whatever paperwork was needed to become his legal guardian when it mattered, and set to work rebuilding James into what he believed was a respectable member of society.

At the time, James had thought the world of him. He’d loved him, in the only way he knew how to love anyone- obedience, gratitude, respect. Henessy had been in the Navy, so James had joined the Navy at his command, enrolling in the youth programs as soon as he was fit enough, enlisting as soon as he was legally able, completing officer’s school as soon as he was no longer “too young for it”.

John listened as James told him about the slow, brutal, metaphorical suicide he’d committed, destroying who he had been in order to be someone the world might want. It was familiar, John had found himself in similar positions over the years, after leaving one foster home and being moved to another. He held tighter to James’ arm as they walked, the only comfort he felt brave enough to offer.

James had made officer ranks, Henessy still hadn’t been all that proud. He made Lieutenant. Still, he could do better, Henessy said.

James stopped drinking. James didn’t date. James studied as much as he could, put himself through school to earn a bachelors while still on active duty. James took another tour of duty far from home surrounded by shipmates who either hated him or envied him.

James made Captain before thirty.

It still wasn’t enough, and James finally started to wonder if it ever would be, if he ever would be.

Then he was sent to New York for six months, not the two weeks he’d told John about over dim sum. Six months temporary transfer, serving alongside the US Navy in training exercises outside the city. Two weeks in he met Hal, the first and only friend he’d had over the span of ten years or so, and James had started to wonder if maybe he could exist outside of the service, maybe he could exist outside of the world Henessy had built around him.

Then he met Thomas and Miranda and James had realized he didn’t know who he even was.

He’d just turned thirty that year, marking thirteen official years in the service. Thirteen years of his uniform being his identity, of Henessy being his conscience.

“He didn’t- he wasn’t openly against other people being queer,” James said with a sigh. “But I knew that if I came out it meant- oh you know, the hypothetical world ending and shit like that.”

“Was that why you wouldn’t make it official? With Thomas and miranda?” John asked.

“I guess. I hadn’t- it was the first time I was faced with something I wanted, something that had no ties whatsoever to the path I was meant to follow, the path he had laid out for me. And I was- fucking terrified honestly. I was thirty and didn’t even know what my favorite color was, let alone what kind of person I was most attracted to, or who I was supposed to be.”

John lit another cigarette as they turned west, James leading them to the Castle. He offered it to him after he took a slow drag, mulling over his words.

“You’d spent so many years hiding, you didn’t know how to do anything else,” he said. He understood. He’d done the same, lost count of how many masks he had in his arsenal that had come from fearing himself.

James humed around the cigarette. “I continued to see them, best I could. Long distance is a bitch but we found our ways. Kept it secret, for my benefit as much as Thomas’.”

“Why?”

“He was going through… a lot of shit with his father at the time. A lot of shit. And the last thing he needed was his conservative member of the house of lords father to find out he’d divorced his wife only to have an illicit affair with a Navy Captain. So hiding was all we thought we could do.”

“It didn’t work, I take it.”

James laughed, a bitter sound. “No, it didn’t.”

Someone had gone to Thomas’ father, given him photos and proof of what his son was doing. Thomas’ father went to Henessy. Henessy had then turned to James expecting him to renounce it all, renounce everything that had to do with Thomas, everything he’d begun to learn about himself in the few short years of knowing the Hamiltons. It was either that, or he’d go to the Navy, to James’ SO, and do whatever it took to have him discharged, unless James saw sense.

“What did you do?” John asked, looking up at the sky as they reached the castle, streaks of lighter blue amongst the dark. He was holding so tight to James’ arm that he could nearly feel his heartbeat, his own fear at being cut off, of being ruined for who he was causing bile to rise in his throat.

“I resigned.” James said in a small voice. “The next day I packed my things, resigned my commission, citing some bullshit personal crisis, and vanished.”

John looked up at him, a little bit in awe at how stupidly brave the man on his arm was.

“I hid in Scotland for a few months, little town on the cliffs just to try and clear my head. I’d have gone back to Camden but I half expected Henessy to follow me there. My… My SO contacted me eventually, told me that due to my successes while serving I was being given the full severance I was due, had I retired properly. He’d known, I think, that I hadn’t told him everything, that I’d lied to hide my… shame, I guess.”

James sighed and leaned back against the stone wall of the courtyard, the pond stretching out behind him. “It was enough to live off of for a short while, until I knew what I wanted to do. I thought, after the first year, that Henessy had cut me off for good. That I’d never hear from him, or have to face him again. But every now and then he gets struck with some bullshit sense of guilt and picks up the phone.”

“Ah christ-”

John loved the way James’ eyes crinkled at the edges when he laughed, even if the laugh was a melancholy sound.

“Yeah, let’s see… He didn’t call me for the first two years, but once I’d gotten my Visa and moved to New York I got a call from him, trying to make amends, as if I’d already gone and renounced the fact I was Bi and in a relationship with a man and a woman.”

“How’d that go?” John asked, sitting on the stone wall next to him.

“I told him he could shove it, broke the phone,” James admitted. “Changed my number.”

John shook his head. “The phone didn’t deserve that.”

“No, but sadly, the moment I hear his voice I just sort of-”

“Black out?”

“Yeah.” James shrugged. “He tried again a year later. He got my new number from an old shipmate I kept in touch with. I’d just- Thomas had proposed, a month or so earlier. We couldn’t get married yet, this was like, a year or two before it was legalized? But it meant something and he- He asked me if I’d come back to England and visit. If I’d give him a chance to make amends now that so much time had passed.”

“Did you?”

James shook his head. “I told him I was going to marry Thomas, as soon as it was legal. He- as expected he handled it the way he had before. Lots of shouting, lots of reminding me what he’d done for me, how much he’d apparently sacrificed to make me into something respectable.”

“Did you break that phone too?”

“No- I drank a bottle of whiskey by myself in Hal’s bar that time and slept on his couch. Thomas was, again, out of town. The Bastard has shit timing.”

John nodded and on a whim, reached over for James’ hand. He expected to be shoved off really, but James threaded their fingers together, as he stared out at the water.

“Last time I talked to him before today was- the day it was legalized. I was watching the news at Hal’s bar, Thomas was there, we were waiting for the interns to just come sprinting out of the doors and when they did-” he laughed softly. “It was a blur, once the announcement was made, that Thomas could make good on his proposal finally. Henessy called me when the news broke. Tried to congratulate me but I hung up on him. I hadn’t even realized he still had my number.”

“So today, what was it? Another attempt at making amends or-”

“No. No today was just him reminding me what I’d thrown away, when I made the choice to-” James shrugged, trying to find the words.

“Be yourself?” John offered.

“Yeah. I don’t know why I tried talking to him, why I bothered with a conversation but- it felt like I should, felt like now, what five or six years later, I should try and start mending bridges. That’s what everyone says you should do, isn’t it? Try and fix things with your parents. But as you can see-” he flexed his free hand, hissing at the ache and sting in his knuckles, “it went about as well as our last conversation did.”

John huffed a weak laugh at that. “Yeah, I can see.”

“So… there you have the really awful lifetime channel special that lead us here,” James said at last, bringing the cigarette back to his lips. “And now you can see me for the disaster I am.”

“You’re not a disaster, James. Not really.”

“No?” James looked at him. “Why’s that?”

“Because you’re not. I- have seen a lot of disasters, too many and- you’re just a bit bruised, a bit rough around the edges. You’re not a disaster-” John said. He, on the other hand, was probably to steps away from becoming the disaster he’d been during his recovery.

“What disasters have you seen, I wonder,” James mused. “That makes you so confident in me…”

It was rhetorical, John could tell. But suddenly, between the love he’d seen James exhibit earlier that night, by the raw honesty he was showing now, baring his throat to John and half expecting a knife in reply, John didn’t care if it was rhetorical.

All the slow burning fires in him, years of letting himself crumble to bits in the wake of burning bridges instead of seeking someone to help guide him, were kicking to life in the face of James’ trust, burning and smoking until John could taste the ash in his mouth.

And suddenly John was talking.

“Foster care. You see a lot of fucks who just shouldn’t have survived as long as they have,” he said, his throat dry as he held tight to James’ hand, terrified of the fact that the truth was falling from his lips for the first time in years.

“How long were you in the system?” James asked.

“Until I was legal. I was a hard case, they said, no one wanted to adopt a hard case. I met Max at a home when I was ten. We kicked up such a fit when they tried to seperate us that our social workers tried to find someone who’d take us both.”

“How many homes had you been at?”

“Six by then. Not counting an orphan home when I was little.” John didn’t even remember the name of the place, and he hoped that one day he’d forget it had ever been a part of his history.

“Jesus..”

“It’s not uncommon. Max had been at the same number by then too. It took them another year before they found a group home that could take us both, that was happy to take us both.”

John took a slow, shaken breath and held it as he counted down from twenty, trying to stomach the anxiety.

Then he told James about Maple.

He told him about the old woman she’d been, in hideous pullover’s with rhinestones and pictures of flowers, about how much she’d loved musicals and encouraged John and Max’s interest in the arts. He told James about the nights when she skipped her own dinner to make sure they all had enough for seconds, when she’d stay up til dawn trying to pay bills and balance her books.

She tried, she tried more so than anyone else John had ever met. And he’d learned to love her for it.

He told James about Solomon, three years older than Max and John, funny and clever, with a cleft lip and a sharp smile. He told him about how they shared a cramped little room and told stories until they fell asleep, how Solomon walked them to school everyday even after he graduated.

“I wish- I wish you could meet them,” he said, wiping at his eyes. “They’d have liked you.”

James was still holding his hand. “What happened?”

“Max left for college. Got a full ride to NYU and never looked back. We were happy for her, really. Even if it meant the house wasn’t quite the same. Maple got it into her head that I could do the same. That I could escape California on a theater scholarship of some kind. She started taking Solomon and I to community theater more often, tried getting me involved with as much as she could.”

There’d been an open audition in LA, in June, two years after Max had left. Some new piece by an up and coming playwright, sponsored by people with connections to the big universities. Those who were cast had a chance at a UCLA scholarship. Solomon had spent months helping John prepare, rehearsing with him every night until John could do it all from memory.

He went to the audition, Maple and Solomon taking off work to come with him. It had gone well, he thought, and Maple had insisted they go to dinner to celebrate, before going back to the hotel to wait for callbacks the next day.

Their car had been hit at eleven thirty two that night, by a truck running a red light.

John could feel James’ eyes on him, even as the world narrowed down to the phantom ache in his left leg, the way his pulse kicked up with nerves as he thought back to that night. He could feel the way James’ hand tightened in his like a lifeline.

“Maple died at the hospital, she’d been in the passenger seat. Solomon died instantly,” John heard himself say. “The- the car’s chassis crumpled and my leg got pinned that’s how-” he waved to his left leg in lieu of continuing, his words failing. “I… I was a disaster, after that. That’s how I know you aren’t one.”

“I don’t think recovering from hell makes you a disaster, “ James said after a moment. “It sounds more like you… I dunno, flipped fate the bird and pieced yourself back together.”

John laughed but it was closer to a sob. God he hated this, he hated how easily he lost his grip on his feelings when he talked about the accident. “I never put myself back together. I pretended to, I listened to the doctors, and did the opposite half the time I-”

He stopped rambling when James let go of his hand. He expected to be pushed away, expected his story to have crossed some line but James’ arm just settled around him, pulling him close. It struck John silent.

“Maybe you did. Maybe you never actually managed to recover the way they expected you to. No one ever really does I think,” James mused in a soft voice, as they watched the sky start to turn pink over head. “Recovery isn’t some cookie cutter process that works for everyone.”

“I just- It doesn’t feel like I’ve made any progress. Aside from walking the way I used to it just-”

“Feels like you bottled it all up and set it aside, like a really potent molotov cocktail?” James asked and John hiccuped out a laugh. “Yeah, might make two of us. If, and I’m no expert so you don’t have to take this as anything other than me talking out my ass- But if you hadn’t really made any progress, even if the progress was so small you missed it happening, I don’t think you’d have gotten this far.”

“This far?”

“You crossed the country by yourself, on a whim, to try and find your footing.” James looked down at him. “I ran away to Scotland for a while to do the same thing, then ran away to New York when it didn’t work. Maybe it’s not exactly the most practical path of recovery, but it still sounds like a path to it.”

John stared up at him, trying to find some kind of argument for it. But with the weight of James’ gaze on him, with the way his arm sat around his shoulders, John struggled to find one.

“We’re both fucked up, both grotesque, but at least we haven’t called it quits. Even though we’ve each been given ample chances to do so,” James said softly. “And I think, despite it all, that’s pretty damn important, kid.”

“An act of rebellion,” John murmured, thinking back to what Thomas had said.

“Hm?”

“Thomas- when I told him about the workshop he said- He said each time we so much as tried, that it was some kind of personal rebellion. Even if all we did was exist,” John looked out at the water. “I guess I hadn’t… Hadn’t really believed him, that all this bullshit leading up to this was part of that, that he was right.

James huffed a laugh. “He’s rather fond of that line. He’s used it on me before.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I do. I have to.”

“Have to?”

“It’s easy, getting lost in the dark again. But things like that, even if they sound like throwaway lines they- mean something. They’re little sparks of recognition, when the dark settles in, that help you remember that others are in the dark with you, that someone, anyone might see you in the black,” James explained, squeezing John’s shoulders gently as he looked out at the sunrise that was painting the sky overhead. “Nothing’s worse than thinking you’re alone in it all.”

John should have been watching the sunrise, but he couldn’t look away from James. The feeling of want was creeping up again, of wanting that simple love he’d seen, of that courage that had seemed so effortless when James had showed his hand. It crept up with so sudden a force that John had trouble breathing.

He wanted.

Wanted peace, wanted a sunday morning kind of love, wanted the old sense of self that had felt like home whenever he danced in the kitchen with Max and Solomon, he wanted to feel brave enough to try again.

He wanted James, on top of it all.

“Hey,” he asked softly and James looked down at him. “Can- can I ask you for something?”

“What?”

“It’s stupid but-”

“What is it?” James asked again before John could talk himself down.

“Dance with me?” John asked, so softly he wasn’t sure James heard him.

James raised his eyebrows. “You said you didn’t dance,” he reminded him gently, but it wasn’t a no, it wasn’t laughter.

“I haven’t. Not- not since it all happened. Not with anyone at least, not publicly. I- I’d like to try again if you’re willing.”

He could see James’ uncertainty as he thought it over, saw the way he wanted to look around them to make sure they were alone. But it was early, so early that the only parts of the park that were likely alive with the day the reservoir and running paths.

“I don’t really know how to dance,” he admitted at last, moving to climb off the stone wall. “You’ll have to show me.”

John stared at him. He hadn’t expected a yes. “I can do that.”

It took him a moment to ground himself, to climb off the wall and take a few slow breaths, swallowing his anxiety as he pulled out his phone.

Thomas had asked him if there’s was a song that made him want to dance, and John like the liar he was had offered some bullshit cliche to protect himself. In truth the song that always broke him wasn’t as boisterous and grand as others, it was soft, nothing more than a piano, a guitar, and voices made weightless by the sentiment their words carried.

He couldn’t play the original, not the version with lyrics that so plainly declared his weaknesses to James, even after how honest he had been. It was a love song after all, and even John wasn’t clever enough to talk his way around it. So he found the instrumental cover he had on his phone and settled for that, stepping into James’ space and offering his hand.

“It’s fairly easy in the end, just- the guitar will set the pace, okay?”

James nodded and John’s breath hitched when his hand settled on his back, the other taking his again with quiet certainty.

Slowly, John lead them through the first half of the song, guiding James along the easy 1-2-3-4 count of a waltz. It wasn’t grand, no sweeping movements that carried them across the courtyard, just small steps in time with each other as the music helped to carry them. His leg ached the way he’d expected but his pros held, his knee didn’t buckle, and slowly he kept moving.

John found himself singing under his breath, the lyrics on the tip of his tongue. As he did, before he could stop himself, James seemed to find his confidence, and took the lead from him. He held John closer, took steps that moved them further across the courtyard, carried John through the end of the song as the weight of the moment settled on John’s shoulders.

He hadn’t danced with anyone in ten years. He had expected it to be so difficult, taking someone in his arms again and trying to find the old spark. And yet, with James, it was no more difficult than closing his eyes and getting lost, letting his body remember the steps he’d taught himself and letting the ghosts in his head fall quiet. John knew he was singing, could feel his mouth move with the chorus of the song, even as James watched him. It was careless, John knew that, to sing a fucking love song in the arms of a married man, but he couldn’t bring himself stay silent.

He opened his eyes and lost his place in the song, caught up instead in the look on James’ face. His eyes were soft, watching John as if he was again seeing something for the first time and John could only hold his gaze as the song ended and James slowed them to a stop.

He watched as James’ eyes dropped to his lips for a moment, hyper aware of how close they were, of how tightly James was still holding him. John had never really believed it, the things written about moments like that, about how time went still and the world went silent- he’d always thought it was a load of sensational bullshit meant to sell more books and films and songs about love.

But the world went still around them, and John watched as James lowered his head, letting go of John’s hand so he could thread his fingers through his curls instead. John closed his eyes at the feel of his hand and pressed closer, letting James pull him into a kiss.

As suddenly as the world had gone still and silent it seemed to kick itself back into gear again. John’s ears filled with the broken sound James made against his lips- or maybe John had been the one to let it slip- his nerves burning with the heat of James’ hands on him, the way his fingers tightened in his curls. John sighed into it, opening for James as he sagged against him, wanting nothing more than to be lost in him, to satisfy the craving for more that twisted his insides into knots.

They moved, James lifting him, moving him with a hand still in his hair, until John felt the stone wall press against the back of his thighs again, holding him up as James turn a chaste questioning kiss into something desperate. It was hungry, a kiss that had John clinging to him with a white knuckle grip on his neck.

James breathed his name between kisses, reverent like a prayer, and John wanted to drown in the way his voice curled around it, how his voice made him feel real. He wanted to drown in the smell of his cologne and the rough weight of James’ hands and the feeling of his beard against his skin and-

A passing jogger wolf whistled at them and John felt it like a sucker punch to the chest. His hands went to James’ shoulders, shoving him back as he tried to breathe.

“John-”

“No,” he said and god he hated the way his voice sounded, rough and needy and broken already. “You’re married for - fucks sake you’re married-”

He wasn’t sure if he was trying to remind James or himself, as he pushed James away and slipped out of his hold. He wanted him, god did John want him, but the line in the sand burned it’s way back into the forefront of John’s mind as he watched James struggle for an explanation.

He couldn’t give James the chance to talk him into it. He couldn’t.

“I- I have to go-” John heard himself say, like a terrible, cliched airport romance novel heroine and god did he hate himself even more for it. “I’m sorry I- thank you, James, for the- but I- I can’t-”

John fled before James could stop him, the sunrise they’d meant to watch together following him all the way back to his hotel like a mocking critic.

What had he been thinking?

What the fuck had he done?

John locked the door behind him and slid down it until he collapsed on the floor, panic seizing his chest. He’d known better, he’d told himself not to want what he couldn’t have and now-

Now he could still feel the way James’ mouth had moved against his own, the way he had fit against him.

John let out a sob as the panic attack hit him fully, curling in on himself to try and ride it out.

He’d wanted distance and instead he’d stepped so deep into the waters around him that he was likely to drown. Maybe he already had.

God, he was fucked.

James called him first thing Thursday morning. John let it ring and go to voicemail, watching the screen flicker back to black like it was the threat and not merely the messenger. He did the same with the second phone call around ten, and again around lunch as he was waiting in another unremarkable office for an interview, before turning off his phone entirely. He couldn’t face him, not yet, maybe not ever. John didn’t know if he was more angry with himself for letting it happen, with James for doing it in the first place, or with the situation as a whole- if he was a shittier person, John wouldn’t feel guilty about it. Hell, if he was a shittier person he’d have celebrated the kiss and begged for more. But he wasn’t, not this time at least. Suddenly the con man had morals, wasn’t that a laugh.

He liked Thomas, as much as he liked James, and the thought of being that person, the one to ruin it all, made him sick. He was still getting over the guilt at how much money had been spent on him, how much charity in disguise he’d accepted. This was more than his frayed, nicotine laced nerves could take. He was sure James had some kind of clever, perfectly reasonable explanation for what had happened, for why he’d gone and forsaken his vows for the span of five minutes. But John wasn’t brave enough to hear them just yet.

His cell stayed shut off in his bag until he got back to his hotel room that evening, debating whether to order chinese and pull another all nighter to get his portfolio finished. He hadn’t exactly started the new monologue that had been born from Hornigold’s bullshit, maybe he could pull a Hemingway and dig the bottle of whiskey back out from wherever he’d hidden it.

John was stepping out of the shower when he heard knocking at his door. His first horror struck thought was that James had come by after getting off work. It wasn’t like the hotel was a secure five star joint, even if they promised not to let guests in unannounced, John wouldn’t put it past James to lie his way into the elevator.

Whoever it was knocked again and John took a slow breath as he tied a towel around his waist. “Yeah?”

“Room service.” They replied, and John rolled his eyes. It wasn’t James. It was the other goddamn nuisance in his life.

“Jack what the fuck?” He demanded, pulling open the door.

Jack swanned into the room like it was his own, dressed in work clothes, a bag of take away on one arm and a bag of bottles on the other.

“I brought dinner and drinks so you can’t be mad at me.”

“I can, actually. How’d you get past the front desk?”

“You booked a room for two ya dipshit, I told them I was your second guest, just arrived for the weekend. Duh.” Jack set the bag of food aside and pulled out a bottle of aperol, a bottle of prosecco, and a bottle of seltzer, fixing each of them a drink. “It’s not exactly The Plaza, babe.”

John groaned, leaning against the locked door. “Can we just- Jack can we not do this right now? Please I really don’t have the energy for this.”

“Look, either we have ourselves a nice little dinner and you tell me what the flying fuck is going on that has you turning off your phone like some petty lil’ bitch on days of our lives, or I bring your sister down here and have her kick your ass back to Weehawken,” Jack said flatly, sitting back in the desk chair and offering the second plastic glass to John. “You seem to be forgetting I’m actually your friend and not just a parasite who benefits off your general wellbeing.”

John sighed heavily, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m- Look it’s just been a shit week okay?”

“For you and half of New York, present company included,” Jack sat forward waving the plastic cup at him. “That is why my solution is spritzers, greek food, and complaining. Will you join me? Or am I going to have to get drunk and mopey by myself. Besides I wanna see what your sugar daddy bought you-”

“Oh fuck off Jack-” John snatched the glass as he passed him, going back to the bathroom to pull on his sweats.

“I promise you, I will see you in at least one of those suits before I leave tonight.”

John laughed, pulling his hair back out of his face. “I haven’t even tried them on myself yet.”

“Well then it’s a good thing I am here to fix that.” Jack was unpacking the bag of carryout containers when John reemerged. He tossed John a gyro. “Now, regale me with what I’ve missed, and I shall do the same. And I want details damnit!”

“You go first. I promise- I promise, if you go first I’ll try on one of the suits. I promise.” John settled onto his bed with his food. Jack sipped his drink and sat forward, offering his pinky. John rolled his eyes and hooked his around it. “You’re a fucking child.”

“Oh don’t I know it. Now let’s see, want to hear about how Charles’ fucking date with his Ex went because hoo lordy John I am beside myself-”

“Actually yeah how the fuck did that go?”

Jack laughed, a high pitched stressed sound. “Oh where do I start-”

John was happy to settle in and not be the focus of conversation for a while, as happy as Jack no doubt was to have a willing audience for his misery. He listened attentively as Jack walked him through the sudden phone call Charles had gotten from Eleanor, how Jack had nearly taken the phone to tell her to make up her damn mind. Apparently she and Max were struggling through their attempts to reconnect and Jack wasn’t exactly pleased that she was just going to try it again with Charles before she and Max had reached some kind of resolution. But Charles, being a stubborn unbearable pain in the ass and an apparent emotional masochist, Jack’s words, had humored her, agreeing to go to some concert at some gay bar so they could talk.

“And on top of it all I’ve got fucking- Paul something or whatever-”

“Isn’t he your boss?” John asked.

“No he most certainly is not, he’s a- lil’bitch is what he is. He’s managing the new project but he’s completely unqualified and unambitious and frankly-”

“You just don’t like the fact he’s trying to tell you what to do.”

Jack waved his hand. “Well I mean obviously. I’m the clever one after all.”

John laughed and grabbed the bottles so he could refill their glasses. “Well, if you want help, I’m starting to think taking that intern spot a your studio is going to be my best option.”

“None of the interviews biting huh?” John shook his head. “Well you know it’s yours if you want it. It doesn’t pay much of anything, you’d have to keep the futon in the den but Max and I aren’t opposed to that.”

“I know you guys aren’t. I didn’t- this place wasn’t meant to be me trying to get away from you guys. I just needed-”

“Room to breathe, no no, I get it trust me. Why do you think I’ve got a cot in my office? Some nights you just need the space to think without someone baggering you. Now- I know the basics of the workshop, from Charles and Anne.” Jack pulled John back onto the bed when their glasses were filled. “What I want to know is how your date with fucking Thomas McGraw went. Because holy shit, babe.”

“It wasn’t a date, Jack.”

“He took you to brunch, he took you shopping, and then he took you to dinner. That sounds an awful lot like an idyllic rich person date. To me at any rate.”

“It wasn’t a date, I’m serious he was just being nice.”

“Rich people aren’t nice. Not even pretty ones like McGraw. So either he wants something from you or you’re his new found source of entertainment. Or, Max and I are right, and you’ve got yourself a lovely sugar daddy who doesn’t have a foot fetish. Aka, the best possible outcome.”

“For you maybe.”

“What, you’re too good to have a sugar daddy? John babe you’re broke,” Jack patted his thigh, “you don’t really have the luxury of pride. And even if you did I mean hell, what’s so wrong with having an attractive man just pay for your existence a while?”

John made a face. “It just sounds… I don’t know like a bad joke, where I’m the punchline. I’ve made it this far without anyone’s help, why do I need someone to help now? Especially someone who thinks of me as a- pet or something.”

“John, my love, look,” Jack took his hand in his and John rolled his eyes. “You haven’t gotten by. You’ve barely managed to survive and the toll it has taken on you is something you might never recover from. Admit it.”

“Fine.”

“And, you have had some help, albeit not great help and not enough help, from me and your sister. And you know damn well that if she or I had been graced with a dead relative’s inheritance, we’d have paid your way long ago. Yes?”

John nodded, smiling despite himself.

“And despite your bitching you would have one day accepted that from us, so maybe you should just accept it from him now. I mean far as I can tell he’s not a serial killer, they’re not unstable. They’re entitled and fancy and obnoxious but that’s easy to tolerate if it means never paying your bills.”

“Why don’t you just be his sugar baby, if you’re so sure that’s what he’s after?” John asked.

“Because he and I know each other well enough to know we’d kill each other. Also I don’t think I could, not with his husband. That ginger is far too broody for my taste.”

“He’s not that broody. He’s got a sense of humor under the beard. And a bit of a maternal side which is surprising but kind nice all the same. I mean-” John scrambled to explain as Jack stared at him over the rim of his glass. “No he’s broody, he’s super broody like punch the wall broody, but he’s also like, the kinda guy to make you breakfast ya know? And who plays nurse when you’re hungover?”

“You weren’t hungover the night of the party, John.” Jack watched him carefully. “Did- Oh my god you ended up spending the night again-”

“It- look it wasn’t like I planned it I didn’t-” John groaned and finished his drink. “Look, after Thomas was done shopping we ended up back at his place and we got to talking. We- I- we ended up having dinner and watching a movie, and there was more wine than I had been ready for so I fell asleep and the next thing I know it’s sunday morning and James is leaving breakfast and coffee for me in the guest room, okay?”

“Oh my god that’s adorable.” Jack laughed. “Tell me he was in a cute lil’ apron too-”

“Nah he was shirtless and in sweats,” John said with a groan, reaching for the bottle again as Jack cackled. “It’s not that funny!”

“Breakfast and a show, how lovely-” Jack stopped laughing at the way John’s face flushed. “Wait- John what happened?”

“Nothing.”

“John-”

“Nothing Jack jesus christ I just ate breakfast, got dressed, and left them to their morning okay? They’re married they obviously want to have a morning to themselves and Thomas was leaving for DC on Tuesday so I just- I didn’t want to be a burden and-”

“You heard them fucking didn’t you,” Jack said flatly and John hid his face.

“Saw them fucking.”

Jack let out a shriek of laughter and John could feel his face heating up. “Oh god that’s priceless. I can almost picture it, Thomas seems like the type to like a good morning fuck, not having to do any work and all-”

“Mm. I wouldn’t say that.” John winced when Jack choked on his drink. “I mean maybe some mornings but-”

Jack kept laughing, hiding his face in John’s shoulder. “Oh my god. I don’t even know where to begin with this! The ginger’s a bottom!”

“How about we don’t begin and just forget I ever mentioned it. That’s got my vote.”

“Forget? Are you kidding me? This is going to power me through the goddamn weekend I mean jesus christ- okay,” Jack sat up. “What position-”

“Please the last thing I need to be thinking about right now is what they looked like fucking!” John slid down on the bed, covering his face. “I don’t need to be thinking about them at all, they’re a distraction!”

Jack watched him, sipping his drink as he seemed to mull something over. John didn’t look at him, couldn’t.

“Oh,” Jack said after a minute. “Oh babe you’re stuck on ‘em aren’t you?”

“I am not.”

“For a con artist you’re a shit liar when it counts, love,” Jack finished his drink and put it aside, settling back on the bed next to John. He hooked his arm around John’s shoulders and tugged until with a sigh John rolled into his side.

“I don’t know what happened. I just- cared all of a sudden,” John muttered.

“About which one?”

“Both, actually. But- James is…”

“Oh no you’re sighing wistfully, oh dear.”

“I am not, he just- I’ve spent more time with him I guess. Between the party and then the park and- Yesterday we went to this- We were at the Bar Charles went to, actually. James and Eleanor are friends I guess, and he was invited as moral support or something and I got dragged along…”

“Why were you able to be dragged along in the first place?”

“Thomas asked me to check in on James. James stopped answering his phone and there was some incident at work so I went by their place and-” John looked up as Jack stared at him. “What?”

“Let me get this straight. Thomas- Who has only known you for like, two weeks at most, trusts you enough to have you be the one to check on his husband.” Jack whistled lowly. “Maybe you’re not the only one stuck.”

“I am trust me. It’s entirely one sided and it’s childish and it’s going to stop I just need to… get over it.” Which was hard with James trying so hard to get a hold of him. If he was going to move on he’d have to face him eventually. “I have to get over it.”

Jack sighed and pulled him closer. “I wish you didn’t have to. I wish I could tell you to just be a selfish bastard and go for it but- It’s probably best you don’t in this instance.”

“Yeah no shit.”

“Well, I still think you should be selfish. And I still think that, if it comes down to it, you should just let yourself be Thomas’ sugar baby so you can get a little more out of him.”

John laughed, pressing his face into the soft linen of Jack’s shirt. “Maybe.”

“At least until I have the finances to take on the role. Then you’ll be my sugar baby and no one else’s.” Jack added, smiling as John kept laughing. “Just don’t develop too expensive tastes. I have like, three of you to support after all.”

“Mm that’s true. Wanna see the suits?”

“Yes!” Jack kissed the top of his head and nudged him off the bed. “Show me everything, love.”

They spent the rest of the night going through the gifts, John trying on the suits and the other clothes for Jack to critique, letting him send snaps to Max for her thoughts on it all. It was good, John felt solid by the time he and Jack collapsed into bed. He felt solid and almost willing to face James and redraw the line in the sand. That was of course, if James answered his phone when John finally called him back.

He left Jack sleeping the next morning, pulling on his jeans and a sweater so he could go outside for a morning smoke and a cup of coffee from the bagel cart on the corner. John paced the pavement outside the hotel, getting half way through his smoke before he finally took a slow breath and looked at James’ messages.

I’m sorry.

John please, answer your phone.

Look I get that you’re angry but let me explain.

John shook his head, the first batch of messages were as expected- apologetic, concerned. Based on the time stamp they’d come just after the first phone call, early the morning before.

John. I’d rather talk about this not text.

Fucking hell kid, answer your phone.

Fine, you want to do it this way, fine.

I’m not sorry.

He stopped midstep, cigarette an inch from his mouth as he read the last message.

I’m not sorry.

I kissed you because I wanted to.  
I won’t apologize for it. I’d be lying if I did and after everything  
lying to you feels wrong.

I will apologize for not explaining myself first, but not for kissing you.

Well- Fuck, John thought to himself, feeling a faint panicked tremor in his hands as he took a drag from the cigarette. So much for the bullshit explanation of why he’d made a mistake. He’d received two more phone calls from James, and another two when he’d shut his phone off. The last call had been from Thomas and that made John groan softly. Of course James would tell his husband. Of course, with his luck, James would tell his beloved husband and ruin all chances of John still maintaining some kind of acquaintanceship with them both.

He brought up the text messages again, feeling too queasy for his coffee.

There wasn’t an explanation from James, despite his admittance that he wanted to explain. All that he’d sent was two screen shots of another conversation, followed by two words that didn’t help ease John’s panic in the slightest.

He knows.

John took a slow breath and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to summon a least a fraction of his tattered courage to open the screenshots and be done with it. He exhaled a curse and opened his eyes, opening the message before he could overthink it. James’ text conversation with Thomas stared back at him, more than enough of an explanation in the end.

So you’ll take him to dinner then? Thomas asked.

That’s the plan. Then just- try not to fuck it up.

You won’t fuck it up, just explain yourself the way you did to me, kiss him, and have a wonderful night darling. Just tell me how it goes afterwards. When I get back we can all discuss the future and what we want, okay?

What if we’ve misread this whole thing? Thomas if I fuck this up-

You won’t. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. You won’t.

I almost wish you were here for it.

No, you’re just chicken shit and don’t want to confess. He’s not going to bite you, unless you ask nicely.

Fuck off.

Good night love, go to bed before you talk yourself out of it.

“Fuck,” John hissed as he read it he conversation over again, and again for good measure. “Fucking, fuck, oh god-”

He knows, James had said. He knows, except it wasn’t the kind of bullshit reply John had expected, that Thomas knew James had kissed him it was- they had talked about it. They’d talked about it, about him, about James planning it all before Henessy’s resurgence had ruined everything.

They had told him about Miranda in hopes of gauging his reaction to the lifestyle, that much John had been aware of then, but he’d written it off as the same mistrust every queer couple or individual he had met, when it came to coming out to practical strangers. Not a chance to question whether he himself was interested in the lifestyle- interested in them even.

Oh, he needed to sit down.

John dropped onto the hotel stoop and finished his smoke, trying to find some kind of chill amidst all of the panic in his head. He’d been ready for the “it was a mistake it won’t happen again” and he’d even been ready for the “Thomas doesn’t have to know let’s have an affair” bullshit, he’d been more than ready to turn James down and burn the bridge if needed.

But this? This had been so impossible an alternative that John hadn’t even begun to consider it as possible in any reality, let alone his own.

Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet and picked up the tray of coffee, carrying it up to his room as he tried to think. He clearly had two options-

The first was to tell James that they were finished being friends and he wasn’t interested. He’d be lying about what he wanted but he’d be able to outlast his final two weeks in the city without a distraction.

Or he could say no thank you and still be friends with them, explain it away as some kind of misunderstanding and again, lie about what he wanted.

Or, he realized, setting down the coffee on the bedside table and dropping onto the edge of the bed, Jack grumbling as the mattress was jostled. Or he had a third option- he could see where this mess might take him. He could be selfish, put his wants first, and at the very least, have a few fun nights before leaving. And if he stayed in the city, well, then that left endless possibilities.

“You’re thinking too fucking loudly,” Jack told him, sitting up with a yawn. “What time is it?”

“A bit past seven. You should probably get ready for work.”

“Mm no studio’s closed today. They gave us off for the release party tonight. Which you’d know,” Jack added, taking the coffee John handed him and producing the bottle of whiskey John had tried hiding a week earlier. “If you’d answer your phone once in a while.”

“Party?”

“Yeah it’s at this club in hell’s kitchen, eight o’clock. You’re on the guest list. So I intend to spend my day off day drinking and doing next to nothing, I’d love it if you joined me-” Jack frowned at him, adding a shot to his coffee, John still rereading the texts. “What’s wrong?”

“I-” was he really doing this? “Can I bring a plus one?”

“Well yeah I mean, If you had anyone sure. John? John who are you inviting?”

John took the bottle from him and took a drink, then another, before getting back up and heading for the door. “No one yet.”

“Where are you going?”

“Being selfish.” John replied, and apparently he was really doing this. He took the stairs this time, racing back down to the street so he could make a call. He half hoped James wouldn’t answer. It’d be easier if he didn’t he could just accept he’d lost a chance and that the bridge was burned.

But James answered on the fourth ring and John froze on the sidewalk.

“John?”

“You meant it?” John asked.

“Meant- if you mean not being sorry yes I fucking meant it. Where the hell have you been?”

“Thinking. I couldn’t fucking think with you calling me every hour.”

James sighed and John could hear him moving around his bedroom. “I was worried. Ghosting people isn’t exactly fair.”

“Neither is kissing people who aren’t your husband without a fucking explanation, Jackass.” John winced, he hadn’t meant to sound so pissed off.

“I- John I said I was-”

“What are you doing tonight?” John asked, before he could second guess it.

“... What?”

“There’s a release party tonight, something Jack’s studio is throwing, I need a plus one.”

“You want me to come?” James’ tone was laced with an unnerving mix of wariness and hope and John felt a spike in confidence.

“I wouldn’t be asking otherwise.”

“When and where?”

“I’ll text you the address, some bar in hell’s kitchen he said, at eight o’clock. Meet me there?”

“Absolutely. John I-”

“Don’t. Don’t we- we can talk later, okay?”

“I- I’ll see you tonight.”

John hung up and let out a curse, running a hand through his hair. He’d done it. He’d taken the first step and now it was up to James as to whether anything came of it. It was terrifying, not having any more control over it. John half expected, half believed, that James wouldn’t show, that he’d have some excuse and John would know he hadn’t been truly serious in wanting him. And if he did show up-

“Why do you look like you shat yourself?” Jack asked when John made it back to the room. He was wrapped in a bedsheet, sipping his coffee and eating cold fries from their dinner, his smudged eyeliner making him look a touch like a raccoon.

“Hypothetical question for you.”

“‘Kay.”

“What’s the most important thing to keep in mind if you plan to fuck a guy?”

Jack made a face. “God it’s not rocket science. I mean the same shit as you would regardless of your partner, condom, lube, pre-” he stopped, staring at him. “Wait-”

“Don’t freak out-”

“Who are you fucking? Who in god’s name are you fucking- give me your phone, give it-” Jack nearly dropped his coffee, trying to grab the phone from John’s hands. “Give me the phone!”

“I’m not fucking anyone! That’s why it’s hypothetical-” John yelped as Jack grabbed him around the waist, dragging him back onto the bed before promptly sitting on his lap and snatching the phone out of his hands. “Jack-”

But Jack wasn’t listening, too busy reading the text’s from James. “Oh- oh my god you kissed him- John when I said be selfish I meant sensibly selfish! Not have an affair with a married man kind of selfish!”

“Screenshots, Jack read the screenshots.”John wheezed. “I don’t- is it an affair if all parties know about it?”

“Yes it’s still a fucking affair if all parties know about it! If Thomas knows he’s fucking someone on the side it’s still a-” Jack stopped. “Wait. Wait, wait wait you mean- when you say he’s aware you- holy fuck.” He stared at the phone, John watching as his eyes darted back and forth across the screenshots. “Oh my god they want you to be their third.”

“No! No it’s not- James only okay, James is the one who wants someone on the side, not both of them.”

“John that still makes you their third. Even if you and Thomas are just friends it means you’re part of the arrangement, holy shit, I didn’t even know they were poly.”

“Thomas had a wife when he and James first met. They said James had been their third for a while.” John explained. “They told me that night we went to dinner but I didn’t think much of it. But he kissed me the other night, I panicked. And now-”

“You invited him to the party right?” John nodded and Jack laughed, kissing John’s forehead. “Oh my boy is gonna fuck a member of the social elite, I’m so proud.”

“It’s not a sure thing, he may not even show.”

“Oh, oh he’ll show. And if he doesn’t I‘m kicking his ass myself.” Jack climbed off him and grabbed for his coffee again. “Sonnova bitch you’re finally getting laid. What are you gonna wear?”

John hadn’t the faintest clue, still reeling from the fact it was happening. When he just shrugged, Jack grabbed his own phone and climbed out of bed.  
“Charles? Babe- Babe I know you’re off today and you probably wanted to sleep, but I need you to come with John and I- Shopping he needs a proper ‘fuck me’ outfit and- I know! I know I’m as shocked as you are-” he said before disappearing into the bathroom, leaving John grinning like an idiot on the bed.

His only plan for the day, to camp out at a nearby cafe and work until he went cross eyed, was scrapped. Within an hour he and Jack were meeting Charles across town for breakfast and a day spent “Being selfish”, as Jack put it. By the time sunset was approaching, John had found an outfit for the party and played chaperone for Charles and Jack’s casual day drinking.  
He kissed them both goodbye at the subway station, wanting to make a few last minute stops and clean his room before he met them in hell’s kitchen. It took him a good five minutes of pacing outside a corner store before he found the courage to go inside and buy condoms and lube. He wasn’t sure why he felt so strangely about it, it was after all what he’d wanted. But he’d only ever been with Madi and that had been a short lived summer. Everything else had been a drunk night on the town during his recovery, nothing more than hands and mouths in the dark back hallways of bars back in California.

This, actually wanting someone and knowing there was at least a fifty percent chance James felt the same way, was an entirely new realization. Sure, there was as much a chance that James would stay for the party and they’d kiss like nervous high schoolers, before saying good night. There was also a chance that John would spend the night alone. But he wasn’t going to take a chance and be wrong.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eight o’clock came.
> 
>  
> 
> Eight o’clock went.
> 
>  
> 
> John felt sick as he finished his drink, another fifteen minutes ticking by. Even if he’d known it’d end this way, it hurt, more than he wanted to admit. He sighed and glanced up, preparing to make his excuses and leave. He caught Charles’ eyes from where he sat at the far end of the bar.
> 
>  
> 
> Charles looked at him, then pointedly looked to the door. Slowly, John followed his gaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning it's 9am and Ive said screw the edits we're posting an update. You can thank my migraine.
> 
> Time to pop some cherries and earn that E rating good and proper.
> 
> What follows is sappy and romantic and explicit but I don't think there's any points of concern. John does go through moments of dysphoria about his body and disability but it's momentary. 
> 
> On a more serious note, I want to thank everyone for their patience with this piece. Life has been a lot to handle lately and I've been struggling with my writing. I talked about it a little on my blog and likely lost some followers for it, but the bottom line is - 
> 
> thank you for sticking by this. Your enjoyment and feed back mean the world to me and help me pick up my work even when I am unwell. I've started working on the next chapters again, albeit slowly, and hope to have some regularity in the coming weeks. 
> 
> All my love,  
> Cat

*

 

 

 

Seven thirty came and John settled into a seat at the bar while Jack and his coworkers finished getting everything set up for the party. Anne dropped into the seat on his left, giving him a long look over before laughing.

 

“What?” John asked, looking down at the fitted button down and tighter-than-he-liked jeans. 

 

“Nothing you just look like Jackie dressed you,” She reached over and flicked the necklace he was wearing “It looks good but jesus, dude.”

 

“Technically he did dress me.” John had gone out on a limb and thrown on a bit of eyeliner, because if he was trying to look interested he may as well go for broke. 

 

But Jack had helped him pick out the tightest jeans Thomas had bought him and the viscose shirt from a shop downtown, the necklace and earrings a last minute addition before they’d called their shopping trip a success. John felt a little ridiculous but if it worked then he’d never question Jack’s fashion advice ever again.

 

“You’ve never let him dress you. Not once. Look if this guy made out with you already, how you’re dressed ain’t gonna be a factor.” Anne said, waving down the bartender and ordering them each an old fashioned.

 

“Jack told you then?”

 

“Nah, Charles and I knew by the time we said goodbye on Monday. The only person you’d spent time with was the mcgraws so it was bound to be one of them.” she set the drink in front of him and patted his back. “Well done by the way, if anything their bank accounts are sexy.” 

 

John snorted. “True. I just- can’t shake the feeling it’s a mistake, ya know?”

 

“That’s your anxiety talking. And trust me, it ain’t ever done you any good, listening to your anxiety.” 

 

John nodded and glanced over to the door. Fifteen minutes to eight and guests were already arriving, the bar filled with music and the lighting dimmed in welcome. John didn’t recognize them, all friends of the studio no doubt, effectively strangers. James wasn’t amongst the first wave of arrivals and John tried not to feel disappointed. 

 

Anne gave his shoulder a squeeze. “He’ll show. Don’t worry.”

 

She left John alone with his nerves as the party started. He barely heard the introduction Jack made, something about how excited they all were about their new podcast and their album launch, something about something and something. John sipped his drink and closed his eyes, trying to focus on the bass heavy music instead of talking himself into leaving the bar before James could let him down. 

 

Eight o’clock came. 

 

Eight o’clock went.

 

John felt sick as he finished his drink, another fifteen minutes ticking by. Even if he’d known it’d end this way, it hurt, more than he wanted to admit. He sighed and glanced up, preparing to make his excuses and leave. He caught Charles’ eyes from where he sat at the far end of the bar. 

 

Charles looked at him, then pointedly looked to the door. Slowly, John followed his gaze.

 

James stood there, looking around the crowded bar for a familiar face, wearing an expression of wariness that matched the knot of nerves in John’s chest. John stood, the movement catching James’ eye and he crossed the floor in quick strides, helmet in hand.

 

“You’re late,” John said when James reached him. 

 

“You try parking a bike around here. Not exactly the easiest thing to do,” James replied, ducking his head. “Sorry I-”

 

“Look let me stop you. If you’re going to apologize all night I don’t want to hear it.” John leaned back against the bar, feeling a sense of satisfaction at the way James’ eyes dropped from his face to look him over. “I don’t care what its for, but no more apologies.” 

 

“Why am I here then, if not to offer some kind of apology?” 

 

“Ever think maybe I just wanted your company?” John asked, and James’ eyes snapped back to his face. 

 

“... it crossed my mind once or twice.” 

 

“Oh good you’re not as dumb as I thought.”

 

James stared at him for a moment, before a slow smile appeared. “I have my moments.”

 

“I’m not angry. So relax a bit, okay?”

 

“I dunno, the whole ghosting for twenty four hours kind of made it seem like you were angry,” James argued, but he set his helmet on the counter next to John’s elbow. “Doesn’t exactly instil a sense of confidence in a man.”

 

“No I guess not. I’m-”

 

“You said no apologies.”

 

John rolled his eyes. “Fine. It was shitty of me. But I was- it wasn’t exactly an easy thing to come to terms with, that I’d potentially ruined a marriage.” 

 

“That’s why you answer your phone, kid. So the person who’s marriage you almost ruined can explain to you how very much on board with it his husband is,” James said, his tone dripping with sarcasm and John laughed in spite of himself. 

 

“Most husbands wouldn’t be,” he pointed out.

 

“Most husbands aren’t Thomas.”

 

“No. No I suppose they aren’t.” John smiled faintly, letting his gaze drop to the fish hook that hung from James’ throat, to the way his t-shirt hugged his chest under the worn leather of his Jacket. “I- I wanted to ask you something.”

 

“Anything,” James said softly, moving half a step closer. John could smell his cologne, the same sharp aquatic scent.

 

“Why?” James frowned and John tried to explain. “Why kiss me? Of all people you could have you picked me and I- I guess that’s the point I’m stuck on most is why?”

 

“Because I wanted to. Because it was you. Because-” James shrugged. “I can’t put it into words. Not really. Thomas is the wordsmith not me, when it comes to things like this but-”

 

“But,” John prompted.

 

“But in that moment nothing else made sense except kissing you. And I’m- I don’t want to apologize for it. Unless of course, you tell me you’ve got no interest in me, or in what we could possibly have, and send me on my way. The I’d- then I’d apologize, for hurting you.” James ducked his head again, shuffling his feet as if waiting to be dismissed. 

 

John watched him, the pulse of the music low and heady around them. “And if I don’t say that? If I don’t send you on your way?”

 

James looked up through his lashes. “Then I’d ask what you want from me.” 

 

“I- I want to try again.” John watched as James lifted his head with a puzzled look. He reached for him, his fingers curling in the front of James’ shirt as if to explain. “I want to try again.”

 

The sound James made in reply was close to a whimper, almost lost in the music as he stepped forward. John pulled him close, tugging at his shirt until there was no space to breathe between them and James’ body was slotted up against his own. 

 

“I want to try again,” John repeated, his nose brushing against James’ as he looked up at him. “If you’ll give me a second chance.” 

 

James nodded, curious fingers tracing the shape of John’s jaw. “May I?” 

 

John’s reply, a breathy “yes”, was lost to the way James’ hand curled around his jaw, holding him still with a gentle firmness as he kissed him again. John opened for him easily, closing his eyes and pressing close. James’ other hand threaded into his curls when John didn’t try and pull away. 

 

Unlike the first kiss the world didn’t seem to slow to a stop or whatever other nonsense those books told him might happen. And John was grateful for it. He wanted to remember this exactly as it was- he wanted to remember the bass of the music in his chest, remember the way James felt pressed up against him, how the difference in their size allowed for James to curl over him almost posessively. He wanted to remember how it felt to have James sigh against his lips and smile, before kissing him again. Without the sudden sense of panic it was an intoxicating moment, the way the knot of nerves John had carried into the bar burned away with the touch of James’ hands, until all that was left was the ache and the need and the overwhelming want in its wake. 

 

James pressed slow, gentle kisses to his cheek when they drew apart, John reaching up to trace the shape of his mouth when he pulled back enough to see him clearly. He was mystified, by the way James’ eyes went dark in the light of the bar, by the curl of his lips as he smiled down at him, by the careful intent of James hands as they settled on his hips. 

“I missed you,” he said softly, and James kissed his fingers as they passed over the corner of his mouth. It was ridiculous, it had been only a day of self imposed exile and yet John hadn’t felt the rift so deeply, hadn’t felt it for what it was, until he had what he wanted in front of him. “Did you miss me?”

 

His answer was another slow kiss, James licking into his mouth as his hands held tight to John’s hips, making him whine and arch into James’ body. The warm fuzzy ache in his chest twisted and sparked until John felt it burn through his nerves, making him cling to James almost desperately.

 

It took him a moment to speak, when James pulled away again, his thoughts scrambled by the way James pressed his face into his throat.

 

“Did- did you want a drink?” John managed to ask, lifting his chin to give James a little more room.

 

“I want you,” James said against his pulse. “But I’ll be patient if needed.”

 

John laughed, a wild little sound, and tried to gather his wits. It wasn’t easy, not with how James’ thigh was settling between his own. “We-we don’t have to stay.”

 

“Rackham won’t pitch a fit?”

 

“I’m pretty sure he’s forgotten I’m even here. Or we could- I’m sure bathroom isn’t-” John froze as James bit own on his throat.

 

“I’m not fucking you in the bathroom of a bar,” he growled.

 

“N-no?”

 

“Not this time, kid,” James nipped his throat again before lifting his head. 

 

John pulled him in for another kiss, doing his best to keep it sharp and demanding and quick. “Then we best be on our way, don’t you think?”

 

James grabbed his helmet off the bar and took John’s hand, pulling him towards the door. On their way out John caught sight of Charles and Jack watching them go with matching shit eating grins on their faces. He was never going to hear the end of it. But then, as James carefully set a helmet on his head and slid a spare Jacket onto his shoulders before stealing a kiss, John couldn’t find it in him to care. 

 

James helped him up onto the bike before settling in front of him. This time, instead of taking hold of the rail along his seat, John leaned forward and hooked his arms around James chest, squeezing him gently when James’ hand came to rest on his for a moment. There was only a spark of fear when they first pulled into traffic, but it was fleeting, even when James took his hand away. John tried, at first, to watch the world as it flew past, the neon lights and shadows of skyscrapers that fell across the busy streets. But by the time James had gotten them to the other side of the island, John had gotten lost in the way James felt under his hands, the solid expanse of his torso sparking another wave of want in him. He didn’t ask how James knew where his hotel was, it was a waste of time and breath, two things John would much rather spend on James. 

 

The clerk at the front desk didn’t stop them when they slipped through the lobby, even though John knew full well that if they’d been not fifteen minutes later he’d have asked questions. It was one of a dozen little blessings that later John would make sure to be thankful for. But as James crowded him into the little elevator, kissing him like each might be the last, John couldn’t spare a thought for anything but the man in front of him. 

 

“I wasn’t- I wasn’t sure you’d come,” John admitted, as the elevator stopped at his floor.

 

“So little faith in me, pup? That hurts.” James stayed pressed against his back, John fumbling for his keycard while he trailed his mouth along the back of his neck. The shift in pet names wasn't lost on John, the way the new one dripped with possessive fondness made him shiver.

 

“Been stood up before. Been forgotten before I- I wanted you to be different but I-” James turned him around and kissed him hard. John felt the keycard be snatched from his hand and heard the faint beep of the lock before the door opened and he stumbled backwards. “I was afraid to hope too much.” 

 

“And now?” James asked, closing the door behind him. “Do you doubt me still?”

 

John shook his head, shoving James back against the closed door. “Not for a moment.” 

 

James’ hands went to his hair as John kissed him, John going up on his toes to press as close as possible. His hands found the hem of James’ shirt, lifting it enough to slip underneath and map the hot skin beneath it. He stole the needy sounds James made, smothered them with a bite to his lips, before he pulled back. James’ eyes were dark, his irises a thin rim of green in the soft light of the room. Already his lips were red and swollen and John wanted to see how wrecked he could make him look before they managed to find their way to the bed. Or another flat surface, really John wasn’t picky. He simply wanted. He wanted, and what was more, he could finally have what he wanted, if only for a moment. 

 

John resisted when James tried to pull him in for another kiss, dropping his lips instead to the bit of James’ tattoo that peeked out of the v-neck collar on his shirt. He heard James whine when he bit at the flowers beneath his collarbone, repeating it again just so he could hear the noise once more. His hands pulled at James’ belt, needing to see him, needing to feel him. He may have been a virgin in some ways, but this, John thought as he sunk to his knees, pulling James’ fly open, this he knew how to do, and this he loved. 

 

“John- Oh christ-” James tried to hold his hips still as John nuzzled the front of his briefs, mouthing at the shape of his cock under the fabric. The hand in John’s curls tightened for a moment and John hissed as Jamed tugged his head back enough to shove his briefs down, his cock laying half hard against his hip. 

 

“Please, James, please let me-” John half begged, his hands holding tight to James’ thighs. He watched James face, watched color flush in his cheeks as he stared down at John, slowly loosening his grip on John’s curls. When there was enough give John pressed closer, taking his cock in hand and nuzzling the wiry red hair at it’s base. He gave a few strokes, getting acquainted with the size of him, before dragging his mouth along the shaft to tease the head with his tongue. The strangled sound James made only gave John more confidence, sucking at the head of his cock with a smile. 

 

Staring up at James through his lashes, John took him into his mouth, relaxing his jaw and sucking gently. His cock was thick like the rest of him and John was grateful for it, for the weight on his tongue and the ache in his jaw as he tried to swallow him deeper. James watched him with hooded eyes for as long as he could, his head dropping back against the door when John swallowed around him and hummed.

 

“Fuck me-” he breathed, fingers spasming in John’s hair, trying not to pull too tight. John pulled back, teasing the head of his cock a moment before pressing forward and taking him deep, finding a rhythm that had James pulling at his hair. His hips stayed as still as possible, even when John pulled at them to try and encourage him to move. Maybe next time then, John thought to himself, hoping there would be a next time as he breathed out his nose and swallowed. James whined when the head of his cock hit the back of John’s throat, looking down at him with a  touch of awe in his eyes. 

 

“You- you are far too good at this,” he breathed, pulling at John’s hair until John sat back, to watch the way his cock slid between his lips. “Fuck just look at you.” 

 

John hummed, relaxing his jaw and pulling at James’ hips once more to try and get him to move. It worked this time, James adjusting his grip in John’s hair before rolling his hips lightly. John moaned as James did it again, and again, pressing deeper, using him a fraction more with each roll of his hips. He looked up at James best he could, watching the way his stomach moved, his abs clenching with the effort to control himself, his skin flushed from the tips of his ears down to the dip of his hips. That flush was quickly becoming John’s favorite sight. Maybe even his favorite color.

 

He whined when James stopped moving, pulling him off his cock with the tight hand in his hair. John tried to move forward, James’ cock mere inches from his lips, slick and flushed like the rest of him. But James held him tightly, tilting his head back so he could see his face.

 

“I’m not as young as you,” he joked and John shivered at the rough edge to his voice. “I come now I can’t fuck you the way I’d like most.”

 

“You spend a lot of time thinking about fucking me then?” John asked, barely recognizing his own voice.

 

“Enough to know I want to see you spread open begging under me. What d’you say, pup?” James asked and John watched him stroke his cock slowly, teasing them both. 

 

The thought made John whine, the few fantasies he’d allowed himself had wondered what it might be like pinned beneath James. “Please.”

 

James grinned, the shark like smile from the night they met, and pulled John to his feet, kissing him hard once he was in reach. It should have been a touch embarrassing, how easily he manhandled John off his knees and onto the bed but all it did was leave John trembling on the bed as he watched James pull off his leather Jacket and shirt. 

 

“See something you like?” James asked, teasing as he made a show of stripping off his jeans and briefs. John could only nod, dumbstruck. He’d seen him half naked more than once, had seen him stripped bare once before. but this close, James was a marvel, one made entirely of soft curves and developed muscle and freckles that were as endless as stars. John wondered if he might one day be able to memorize each and every one. 

 

He also wondered, with a sharp and sudden spark of panic, what James would think of him. If he’d be a disappointment. He was frozen by it, even as James crawled onto the bed and kissed him, slowly pressing John down into the sheets. He hadn’t taken a partner to bed since Madi, in part because he didn’t think most people would have her same acceptance of the scarred, “one legged creature” he had become. Either he’d be a disappointment to them once he got his clothes off, or they’d have some fetish that’d come to light, and John hadn’t been willing to stomach that kind of upset.

 

When James reached for the low cut collar of his shirt, to start unbuttoning it, John grabbed his hand, squeezing tight as he tried to stay calm.

 

“Whats wrong?” James pulled back enough to see John’s face. 

 

“I’m- it’s stupid but I-”

 

James ran a steady hand over his hair, oddly tender for the moment. “Tell me.”

 

“I-” John shivered as James ran his fingers up and down his throat. “You saw the pros.”

 

“I did. You kicked it off on my stairs after all,” James reminds him. When John tried looking away he hooked a finger under his chin, making him meet his eyes. “If you’re expecting me to recoil you’re mistaken, pup.”

 

“I don’t know what I’m expecting. Haven’t exactly had much of a sex life since losing it.” John slowly let go of James’ wrist. “I just don’t want you to be disappointed in me.”   

 

“Disappointed?” James looked at him like it was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard.  

 

“People seemed to always want someone whole in bed with them,” John shrugged, “Someone whole, someone a little less gnarled-” His words were muffled by James kissing him, again with that careful devotion and tenderness that John had witnessed but never expected to receive. 

 

“I want you,” James said against his lips. “You, exactly as you are, here with me, however you’ll let me have you. To hell with other people and what they want.”

 

John clung to him, kissing him until the knot of fear in his chest started to unwind. James would take care of him, he told himself, he would. 

 

James hummed when he felt John relax. “That’s it, I’ve got you. Just lay back for me.” He pressed John’s arms down besides his head, pinning him for a moment, before turning his attention to the arch of John’s throat.  

 

He took his time stripping John of his clothes, his mouth following his hands as they touched and explored. John’s left arm carried most of the scars from the accident- a large burn, faded and ghastly, curving up over his shoulder, three long gashes across his bicep from stitches, speckles on his forearm where glass had been caught. Despite his tan they never quite lost their palore. James took time with each of them, learning the feel of them under his fingers, pressing reverent kisses in the wake of his touch.  

 

John was shaking by the time he’d finished inspecting his arm, trembling from the weight of each press of lips and each feather light touch. The same speckling of scars covered the left side of John’s chest, and each one received the same treatment, until James reached the waistband of his jeans and looked up.

 

“Still with me, pup?” He asked, and John did his best to nod, lifting his hips so James’ could get his jeans and briefs off him. He paused, sitting back, his hand resting on John’s scarred knee, just above the prosthetic leg. 

 

“Would you feel better leaving this on?” John shook his head. “Do you want to take it off or do you trust me to?”

 

“I- I trust you,” John said, and it should have terrified him. No one removed it but himself, not Max, not Jack, not even his doctors back in california were allowed to touch his prosthetic. 

 

Maybe James understood that, maybe he saw something in John’s face that explained how raw and vulnerable a moment this was for him. Because he was delicate in his touch, reverent even, looking from the pros to Johns face as he removed it to make sure John was alright. He set it next to the bed, easily in John’s reach, and ran his hands up and down the length of John’s thigh and stump, gently massaging it a moment to ease the everyday ache. 

 

John watched him, his skin hot and his body heavy, waiting for James to speak. He nearly felt like an old world offering, laid out bare and desperate to be deemed worthy. The heat in James’ eyes as he pressed soft, open mouth kisses along the inside of John’s bad leg, felt like the benediction he needed. 

 

“James- James, come here- please-” John gasped as James sucked a mark on his hip. John reached for him, his fingers slipping on James’ shoulders as he tried to pull him close. 

 

James slid back up his torso, rumbling as John’s hands found their way into his hair. He took the desperate kiss John pulled him into and tamed it, pressing John down into the bed with the weight of his body, pinning him in place. John moaned into the kiss, James’ arms wrapping around him, holding him close- he felt smothered and safe, lost in a haze that was nothing but James. It was exactly how John had imagined being held by him would feel.

 

“Just look at you,” James said softly, rocking their hips together. “So good for me, my beautiful boy.” He stole the soft sounds John made in protest, silencing each with a firm kiss and another drag of his cock against John’s. “My beautiful, perfect boy.” 

 

“Please-” John almost thought that he could come just like this, rutting against James and listening to the timbre of his voice and the praise that made John shake. It felt like praise he didn’t deserve but oh did it twist his insides and make him feel loved. Or at the very least make him feel desperate, his cock leaving a smear of precome across his stomach, slicking the roll of James’ hips. 

 

“Please what, pup?” James bit at his lower lip. “What do you need?”

 

“Anything- anything you want to give just please don’t stop-” John’s voice pitched higher as James spread his legs, settling between them and keeping a slow, steady rhythm. ”Oh-”

 

“I’m asking what you want,” It felt like a scolding, James biting at his jaw and making John whine as he slowed his hips. “What do you want John? To get off like this? Do you want my mouth on your cock?”

 

“You-” John cursed, trying to think clearly. “You said you wanted to fuck me, didn’t you?”

 

James made a low sound against John’s throat. “I do.”

 

John twisted as best he could and reached for the bedside table, where he’d put the lube and condoms. He offered them to James as an answer.

 

“You said you thought I wouldn’t show.” James took them both with a grin. “Still wanted to be prepared, pup?”

 

“Can’t blame a guy for being optimistic.”

 

James hummed in agreement, taking a condom from the roll and tossing the rest back into the drawer. “Lay back for me-”

 

John did as he was told, lifting his hips as James nudged a pillow under him, letting himself be arranged until James seemed content. He stretched out along John’s side and slicked his fingers, stroking John’s cock before slipping his hand lower. John whimpered at the first touch of his fingers, nothing more than a soft pressure as James circled his entrance. He’d fingered himself a few times, never quite getting deep enough to make it worth while, but those first sensations were always enough to put him on edge. Especially now that it was James’ calloused hand and not merely his own.

 

“Fuck me, you’re tight,” James breathed out against his shoulder, as he slipped the tip of his finger into him, thrusting gently to try and work him open. “How long has it been, jesus-”

 

“Never,” John gasped out, willing his body to relax. “Never just- just my hand I-”

 

James lifted his head. “What?”

 

“I haven’t,” John repeated. He loved how dark James’ eyes had gotten, the green lost to the dim light. “Never got farther than a few blowjobs with a few strangers. You, you’re the only-”

 

The sound James made was animalistic, low and possessive in his throat. The kiss he coaxed John into was equally possessive, James biting at his lips and licking into his mouth like he wanted to devour him, or at least erase the touch of anyone who may have come before. He looked drugged when he pulled away, removing his hand and getting more lube, face flushed and gaze heavy. John wondered if he looked as far gone, he certainly felt it.

 

James worked him open with staggering care, taking his time until he was satisfied. He didn’t stop until John was almost dripping, rocking back against his hand to get his three fingers deeper. Every few strokes James would go for his prostate and John would bite back a wail as he bucked into James’ hand. 

 

“F-fuck- fuck James please-”

 

“It’s alright, pup,” James murmured against John’s cheek as he withdrew his hand, John cursing and begging him not to stop. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

 

He was burning up, trembling in a haze as he watched James roll on a condom and settle back between his spread legs. John couldn’t remember ever feeling like this, ever feeling so physically strung out and alive, couldn’t remember ever wanting someone so much it consumed him entirely. 

 

“I’ve got you,” James said again as he lifted John’s hips and pressed forward, the head of his cock slipping inside John with little resistance. The pressure and stretch was almost too much, John arching into him and gasping for air. “That’s it-”

 

“Fuck, oh god, James, James,” John chanted, breathless, clinging to James’ shoulders like a lifeline, his nails leaving little crescents in his skin. James rolled his hips in shallow thrusts until he slid home, his hips flush against John’s ass, his breath hot on John’s neck as he moaned.  

 

“It’s okay, breathe,” James said, nuzzling his cheek. He held still giving John a chance to breathe and try to relax around him. But he couldn’t, it was too much, too new, the sensation of being filled and consumed so thoroughly. It knocked the breath back out of his lungs every time he managed to inhale, leaving him gasping against James’ lips as he tried to kiss him. 

 

It was a slow, heated affair, nothing like the passionate rush John had expected when they reached the hotel. James kept him wrapped up in his arms, a large hand at the small of his back to support him. The drag of his cock pulled broken moans out of John, moans breathed into the flushed skin of James’ shoulder. The kisses were sloppy, perfectly wet and desperate as James fucked him with a steady rhythm. He made sure John felt each press and slide, made sure to find his prostate every other thrust, praising him each time John arched and wailed against his lips. 

 

“Fuck, that’s it John,” James groaned against John’s jaw as John’s body tightened around him. “So good for me, so fucking good.”

 

“There- there please-” John pressed his face into James’ neck to stifle another shout as James nailed his prostate again, grinding against him in a way that left John whimpering, had his toes curling in the sheets and his stomach clenching. “Oh god-”

 

“Like that?” John nodded and James ground his cock into him hard, sitting back so he could watch John writhe beneath him. James took hold of John’s hips, lifting him just enough to make each grind deeper. “God you’re gorgeous, such a good boy for me. Aren’t you John?”

 

John whined at the praise that normally would feel ridiculous, and nodded his head, not able to do much more than whine in response. He wanted to be good, wanted James to keep him, wanted to be his boy- fuck it had only been two weeks and John was already ruined over this man. 

 

“Gonna come for me?” James asked, twisting his hips with a hungry smile and dazed dark eyes. John knew he was close, could feel the arousal tightening in his stomach, feel the way his body ached with the effort to hold on a bit longer. All he needed was a hand on his cock and he’d be gone. “Cmon, I wanna see you let go for me-”

 

John reached for his cock and yelped when James smacked his hand away. 

 

“No, no you can come from this, I know you can. You’ve been so good, just a bit more John. Come on, I know you can do it.” James lifted Johns hips and pressed forward, curling over him and bending him in half with the rough force of his thrusts. John grabbed for him, hands tight on James’ neck, holding on desperately as he felt his control fraying. 

 

James squeezed his hips and ground his cock deep against his prostate, once, twice, with what could only be an order on his lips- “Come for me.”

 

He ground his hips a third time, and John let out a silent scream as his body went taught, his orgasm tearing through him with a sudden force that made stars burn behind his eyes. James fucked him through it, leaning down to lick the stripes of cum off John’s stomach and chest, until John was nothing but a trembling mess in his arms. 

 

“James,” John’s voice was barely a whisper, breathless as he pulled James as close as he could. He needed him close, needed to be consumed by him in the post coital fog he was floating in, needed to feel nothing but James in him, around him, over him. James’ name fell from his lips over and over, a reverent prayer against James’ ear until James’ body went taunt and his teeth bit down on John’s throat. The sharp point of pain just added to the haze of it all, a fresh wave of warmth that spread through John’s body. Absently, he hoped the mark would linger, let him pretend he was kept for a day or two at least. 

 

Slowly, tenderly even, James kissed him, shaking hands cradling his face the way one did something precious, like John was the world to him in that moment. He kissed him as he withdrew, hushing the whimpers John made at the loss, petting him in lieu of spoken praise. He left John only for a moment, stumbling to the bathroom for a damp washcloth and to toss the condom. 

 

“You’re okay, pup,” James told him, carefully wiping him down and checking him over for any injury or discomfort. “You did so well.” 

 

John hummed, stretching like a cat at the praise, sated as the ache and warmth settled into every inch of him. “Did I?” 

 

God, why did the thought make him so happy, that he’d pleased James. It shouldn’t have, it should have felt degrading, and yet there he was, itching to be told he was wonderful. Maybe it was just the post sex haze he was slipping into, just on the brink of sleep as James pulled him close and switched off the light. Maybe that’s what it was, and not the fact that he was so thoroughly stuck.

 

“You did,” James repeated, kissing him in the dark, as John started to fade. “You’re perfect, love.”

 

Love? John shivered at the endearment that probably meant nothing.

 

“Mm, you said- I was your boy,” John mumbled, nuzzling at James’ neck. 

 

He felt James chuckle softly, felt him press a kiss to the top of his curls. “My boy, my beautiful boy.” 

 

It was silly, it was ridiculous, and yet it made John feel safe, feel warm, feel wanted, as he feel asleep tucked into James’ side. 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Have some more porn and soft domestic idiots. There is a lot of porn on the future chapters, idk how that happened but it did so here we are. 
> 
> 2) James being a switch is obviously a delight but my heart belongs to James the soft subby bottom ok? ok. 
> 
> 3) I know I have spent most of this fic with John being insecure and doubting his self worth, and I hope it hasn't had too much of a negative effect on anyone. Its one part of his character that I've related to heavily since the beginning and I wanted to explore it as much as possible, even if it's a bit uncomfortable at times. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy and as always feel free to comment or drop me a line at lupismaris.tumblr.com, hearing from you guys is honestly the brightest part of my week. 
> 
> I'm working on editing the next update and have made progress with the following chapters (!!) so with a bit of luck and determination, I'll have another update for you all lovelies very soon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

John woke warm and aching in the way that felt more satisfying than uncomfortable. The room was soft with early morning light, the blinds half open. He stretched with a groan, rolling onto his back, expecting to find James sleeping next to him. Only the bed was empty and the room silent and James’ clothes gone. John looked back up at the ceiling and tried to breathe through the sudden overwhelming sense of panic.

 

Okay. Okay, John tried to tell himself as his eyes stung. Okay so he was waking up alone. Ideal? Not in the slightest. Surprising? A little, he’d thought that at least some part of the night had been genuine on James’ part, what with the pet names and the tenderness and the open acceptance of, well, everything John was? With the soft declarations of John being his?  Unless really all he had wanted was to get John out of his system before going back to his beloved husband.

 

Okay, at least there hadn’t been a terribly awkward goodbye, right? That was the one point of positivity in all this? On waking up alone? It meant he didn’t have to cry in front of James? That was a good thing wasn’t it? No, it wasn’t enough to hold onto, it wasn’t enough to stave off the pain in his chest as the panic attack seized his chest and made him want to cry.

 

John sat up, trying to breathe through it, only to nearly fall out of bed in surprise when the lock on the door beeped and the door swung open.

 

“Oh hey, you’re up,” James said in greeting, kicking the door closed behind him, his hands filled with a tray of coffee and a bag of breakfast from the deli on the corner. “Hope I didn’t wake you. But I wanted to grab this before the best bagels were gone.”

 

John stared at him, James not noticing as he set down the food and coffee on the desk and shrugged off his jacket, going to wash his hands in the bathroom. “Help yourself, I grabbed a dozen and a tub of spread,” James called over his shoulder. “Sleep well?”

 

John couldn’t find words, just panicked breathing he tried to hide.

 

“John? You okay?”

 

“I- I yeah I, I’m fine,” John croaked and the tremor in his voice made James look up from the sink, drying his hands. John looked away, wringing the blanket in his hands to try and calm down. “I’m fine.”

 

“Hey, hey what’s wrong?” James asked, tossing the towel aside. “John what happened?”

 

John reached for him despite himself, needing something to hold onto. “I thought- I thought you’d left I’m sorry I-”

 

James settled on the bed, kneeling over John’s lap. “I’m here, I’m here pup, it’s alright.”

 

“You were gone and I- I panicked Im sorry-”

 

“John, John hush it’s alright. You were sound asleep, I didn’t want to wake you. It’s alright.” James told him softly, kissing his cheeks until John lifted his head and kissed him in return, desperate through his fear. “I’m right here, John.”

 

John clung to him, hands fisted in the fabric of James’ shirt. Slowly the panic dissipated, leaving him exhausted despite a full night’s sleep. “I’m sorry,” he murmured against James’ lips. “I’m- I’m used to being forgotten I’ve never- you were gone when I woke up and I thought you were done with me.”

 

James hushed him again, settling into his lap. “I thought you might want breakfast, that’s all. You were snoring when I slipped out, I half expected you to still be asleep.”

 

John nodded, letting James kiss him firmly, letting him card his hands through messy hair and hold him close. He felt ridiculous, even if the panic seemed justified.

 

“I’ll leave a note next time, kay?”

 

“N-next time?” John asked, blinking up at him. The weight of James on his lap was oddly comforting. “You- you want a next time?”

 

“I did bring you breakfast. Not exactly what you do if you plan on dumping someone, so I’m told.” James tried to smile but it was the same shy twist of his lips that betrayed his own nerves. “Besides, I- I didn’t make this choice lightly. I didn’t choose you on a whim.”

 

“No?”

 

“I want to see what you and I can make of this, if you’re willing?” James asked, tracing the shape of his lips with careful fingers. “I’ve never wanted anyone other than Thomas and Miranda. But I want you, and I want something to come of it. If you want the same.”

 

John nodded. “I do. I want the same. Please James-”

 

James kissed him, slow and sweet and John was reminded of watching him kiss Thomas that one sunday morning. It held the same kind of promise, the same weight, the same intent and John melted into it, dropping his hands to settle on James’ hips. He had a fleeting thought, a fleeting curiosity of what might happen at the end, of how ruined he’d be when he inevitably packed his bags and headed west.

 

Then James rolled his hips and John’s breath left him in a rush, the thought erased.

 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” James said against his lips, “let me make it up to you?”

 

“Wasn’t that what breakfast was for?” John asked, making a soft sound as James rolled his hips again.

 

“Breakfast was because its seven am and I figured an attempt at domestic bullshit couldn’t hurt,” James sat back to pull off his shirt, the fish hook still sitting pretty at the hollow of his throat. “And I can think of a far better way of making it all up to you.”

 

“Can you now-” John groaned as James twisted his hips. “Oh-”

 

“I’ve never been much for sleeping in, too many years of being up before dawn I’m afraid. “James said as he kept rolling his hips, taking John’s hands and encouraging him to touch. “And as I woke up this morning, to your snoring mind you, I was struck with an idea.”

 

“Were you?” John mapped his chest with his hands, the soft curve of his stomach, the broad freckled skin of his pecs, fingers catching in ginger hair.

 

“A bit of pre-breakfast entertainment, so to speak.” James shifted to his knees so he could shimmy out of his jeans, leaving John staring. Apparently James didn’t think boxers were all that necessary for a morning run to the deli. “Unless you’d rather-”

 

“No- no,” John said quickly, digging his fingers into James’ hips to keep him from moving away. “I want you, breakfast can wait.”

 

The chuckle John got in reply was low and made him shiver. “That’s my boy.”

 

He settled back into John’s lap, tugging the sheets out of their way so he could grind their cocks together. John moaned against his collarbone at the heat of his body, at the sensation of skin on skin as James rocked against him. It was his chance to wrap his arms around James, to hold him tight and memorize the way his body felt under his hands. He’d have been content to get off like that, with James in his arms and the lazy drag of their cocks.

 

But James seemed to have a plan in mind. John looked up when he shifted, rocking up onto his knees for a moment so he could get John’s cock under his ass.

 

“To be fair, I technically got the idea last night,” James said, his voice heavier already. “When I finally got a look at your cock.”

 

“Fuck-” John bit at his collarbone, as James settled back into his lap, grinding his ass against John’s cock with a slow, almost lazy rhythm. “What- what about it?”

 

“Can’t help but wonder how good it’ll feel,” James said and John’s eyes snapped open. James lifted John’s hands off his hips and guided them around to his ass, spreading himself so John could feel the slick at his entrance.

 

“Oh fucking Christ-” John moaned, pressing a hesitant finger against him, only to have it slip easily inside. “James-”

 

“Had to do something this morning while you were asleep,” James teased, making a pleased sound as John pressed his finger deeper. He was slick and loose and John worked a second finger into him just to hear his breath stutter.

 

“You fingered yourself-”

 

“In the bathroom, didn’t want to wake you- oh there,” James sighed as John’s fingers brushed his prostate. “That’s it.”

 

“You want me that much?” John asked, a little dazed by it. He worked his fingers slowly over James’ prostate, in awe of the way he rocked back against his fingers, of the breathy sounds he made.

 

James nodded, already flushed. “F-figured I’d save us a bit of time.”

 

John got a hand in his hair and pulled him into a biting kiss, “Next time let me?”

 

“I promise,” James kissed his cheek and reached over him for the condom sitting on the bedside table. “Now lay back for me, pup. Let me take care of you, hm?”

 

Really that was all John could do, lay back on the pillows as James slicked his cock and slid on the condom, teasing him with a few loose strokes of his hand. He half held his breath as James positioned himself, holding John’s cock at the base, only for all the wind to be knocked out of him as James lowered himself down, taking him inch after inch until he was seated flush against John’s hips.

 

The same expression he had seen that Sunday morning was back on James’ face, as John stared up at him in awe- the same expression of bliss, as his chest heaved and his body trembled over him. James took a moment, adjusting to the size of him, trying to steady his breathing. Then he rolled his hips, a slow grind to get John’s cock deeper, and he smiled, gasping at the feel of it.

 

John reached for him, holding tight to his hips as he struggled to stay still, the tight heat of James’ body making him whine. God he was good, too good. “James…”

 

“God-” James rolled his hips and let out a moan. “God you’re big, oh fuck -”

 

Just the way he had with Thomas, James took up a building rhythm, grinding his hips and making John writhe beneath him. He couldn’t do what Thomas did, he couldn’t get his feet under him and fuck James until he saw stars, not without his pros. But James didn’t seem to care. He seemed overwhelmingly content to fuck himself on John’s cock, the rich pink flush of his cheeks spreading down his chest again, until even his thighs were the same hue. His cock leaked against his stomach, red and swollen. James didn’t seem to care.

 

“How’s- How’s it feel?” John asked, and James caught his hands, lacing their fingers together. “Tell me-”

 

“So good, so fucking good, john,” James lifted himself up and sank back down, finding a rhythm that made John curse. “I knew it would, I knew you’d be good- oh- oh f-fuck-”

 

He leaned forward, pinning John’s hands to the bed as he worked his hips, his words lost to a slew of needy sounds. John was so caught up in him, in how gorgeous he was, that his own arousal, his own release seemed an afterthought. All he wanted was to see James come apart, see James in the same state of pure bliss that he’d been in with Thomas. John wanted to be the one to give him that, to bring him to a point where all he could do was beg. He couldn’t fuck him the same way, but maybe he could still manage the same result.

 

“Just look at you,” John said, holding tight to James’ hands to try and reign in his control, rolling his hips best he could to meet James. “You love this don’t you?”

 

“Y-yes-” James gasped out. “God, yes-”

 

“Need it even-”

 

“Fuck, John, yes.”

 

“You need your boy don’t you?” John asked, thrilled at how James’ words from the night before made him shiver, thrilled at how natural they felt. “You need your boy’s cock, don’t you James, so badly.”  


James let out a broken sob and ground his hips down hard, John’s name on his lips. “Please-”

 

“Show me. Show me how much you love it, show your boy how good it feels to ride his cock.”

 

James sat back and fucked himself with a rough desperate rhythm, John’s control slipping as he arched up to meet him. He held tight to James’ hands, keeping them occupied so the only relief James had was the drag and press of John’s cock. And Jesus if he wasn’t a sight, raw power and need, his face slack with want as he sank down and ground his hips, John’s cock hitting his prostate and making him sob.

 

It was all he needed. John didn’t touch his cock once before James went tight as a wire and spilled across John’s stomach. He was gorgeous in that moment, John’s name the only word he seemed capable of uttering in his bliss, and John was desperate to burn the image into his memory.  He kept working his hips in tight little circles, until John followed him over the edge.

 

“Holy fuck,” John gasped out and James laughed breathlessly, rolling his hips to work John through it. When John started trembling under him he pulled off, a wounded little sound leaving him. He fumbled for the washcloth they left on the bedpost, wiping them both down  and tossing the condom into the trash, while John stared at the ceiling and tried to piece his brain back together.

 

James was grinning when he hit the bed on John’s left. “You okay, pup?”

 

“Fucking hell,” was all John could manage and James pressed his face into John’s shoulder, shaking with tired laughter. “God you’re amazing, holy shit.”

 

“Mm I do try,” James pressed lazy kisses along John’s shoulder, until he reached the mark he had made the night before. He shifted, propping himself up on his elbow so he could bite down, adding to the light bruises and making sure they’d linger a bit longer. John whined, barring his throat.

 

“Am-” and really, John had hoped the post coital haze would stave off his nervous questions a bit longer. But alas. “Am I-”

 

“What, John?” James asked, leaving another mark just below his jaw.

 

“You kept calling me your boy.”

 

“I can stop if you don’t like it. Same with pup.” James soothed the marks with the same lazy kisses, before moving on to make more. “I understand not liking them.”

 

“No, no I- want to be.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“I want to be your boy. If that’s- I mean if you were serious and not just caught up in the moment.” John mumbled. But then he couldn’t exactly shake the fact that Thomas had used the same term.

 

“He says as I leave yet another fucking hickey on his throat,” James muttered. “As if a hickey isn’t a sort of mark of ownership, but alright sure I’m caught up in the moment.”

 

John laughed, hiding his face in his hands. He felt ridiculous, even as James left another mark in the hollow of his throat. “Oh c’mon I’m new at this-”

 

“You’re mine,” James said against his ear. “My boy, for as long as you want to be.”

 

In the end there was a good chance that it’d only be for another week or two, John knew that in the back of his mind. But all he could do in the moment was preen under James’ attention, and feel content at the notion that he belonged to someone. Maybe later he’d panic about how short lived it would all be.

 

But for now, he belonged at least a little bit to James.

 

They didn’t acknowledge the outside world again until well into the afternoon, when James’ phone started to buzz on the floor where he’d left it. He climbed over John, grumbling softly.

 

“Who is it?” John asked, dozing in yet another delicious post coital haze. His body felt like lead, the drag of James’ fingers in his ass still a lingering sensation.

 

“Work. Of all fucking things.” James kissed him before disappearing into the bathroom. “Hello?”

 

John smiled, rolling onto his back and stretching like a cat. God he felt good. He couldn’t remember the last time being so physically rung out felt so refreshing. He took his time rolling out of bed, slipping on his pros so he could cross the room and open the blinds, grabbing his now cold coffee. He could hear James on the phone, muffled conversation with his department, most likely Billy. There was a touch of domesticity about the moment, a lazy day spent together, with a simple breakfast and no rush to go anywhere or do anything. It was such a simple thing to be happy about but John was over the goddamn moon. He poked his head around the door frame and passed James his coffee, preening at the quick thank you kiss it got him.

 

“No Billy- No it’s not, will you stop talking?” James rolled his eyes and John stifled a laugh, leaving him to it. He found his own phone in the heap of discarded clothes, dropping back on the bed to scroll through his missed notifications.

 

Jack had texted him, asking for updates once John was finished having his fun, Max leaving a similar quick voicemail. He replied to them both, quick little emoji texts to let them know everything had gone well.

 

Then he saw the voicemail from Thomas and he froze, the warm domestic haze turning into a biting panic in his chest. Technically, technically he told himself, he hadn’t done anything wrong so Thomas shouldn’t have called him to yell at him. Shouldn’t have, doesn’t mean he hadn’t. John groaned softly, wishing in passing he’d gone out to have a smoke, his frayed nerves not exactly ready to face the reality of the whole situation just yet.

 

He finished his coffee and tucked the phone up against his ear. Best get it over with.

 

“Well I certainly hope the fact I’m leaving a message is a good sign,” Thomas said laughing softly. “And that you two are enjoying yourselves as much as possible. I’m not calling in hopes of interrupting, but do call me back when James lets you up for air.”

 

Oh god, John wanted to die a little.

 

“I don’t know what plans you two are making, of course they take priority, but I’d love to have dinner with you tonight, or tomorrow if you’re free. Just so we can catch up, darling, and so I can thank you for taking such good care of James earlier in the week.”

 

John shivered at the tone of his voice, weighty and laced with what John almost mistook for want. But that was just his imagination talking, relief at Thomas not being angry with him.

 

“Give me a call we you can, pet, and give my love to James.”

 

The message ended with a beep and John stared at the screen, unsure whether to be relieved or horrified.

 

“Why do you look so concerned?” James asked a moment later, tossing his own phone aside.

 

“Uh- your uhm- husband called.”

 

“Oh, cool.”

 

“He wants me to have dinner with him?” John continued and James stopped spreading cream cheese on his bagel.

 

“Okay,” he said with a shrug, but John caught the look of mild concern on his face.

 

“He’s not gonna yell at me is he?”

 

“Nah, he talked about taking you out to dinner earlier in the week, as a thank you for Wednesday. He probably just wants to make sure it happens.” James shrugged. “No need to be afraid of him. He’s harmless.”

 

“What did work want?”

 

“There’s a shipment coming in tonight instead of Monday. They need me to come in and help over see it.” James looked thoroughly displeased by it. “But I can come back here the moment we finish, I promise.”

 

John nodded, glancing back at his phone. “Thomas said possibly dinner tonight, but-”

 

“Oh, well that works too.”

 

“He said our plans were more important though?”

 

“How about you have dinner with him, I’ll swing by the house after work and we can come back here if you want? Spend all day tomorrow together?”

 

“You want to?”

 

James did his best not to roll his eyes as he nodded, stepping close to kiss John softly before going back to his bagel. “Yes pup, I want to. Call Thomas, tell him you’ll be over tonight around six, okay? But no sooner, that’s two and a half more hours I intend to use thoroughly.”

 

“Yessir,” John said, rolling out of bed and stepping into the bathroom to make the call. He nearly missed the way James went still at the “sir”. Nearly missed.

 

“There you are,” Thomas said when he answered and John felt his face heat up again. “I take it you’re having a good weekend so far?”

 

“Uh- yeah, yeah we are uhm- Dinner, you said dinner tonight?” John fumbled.

 

“Only if James doesn’t mind me stealing you for a bit. Or we can all three have dinner like we did at Nom Wahs if you like.”

 

“James got called into work actually-”

 

“What? Oh that’s absurd!”

 

“No it- I mean yeah it is but he said that he’d be working till ten or eleven, so I’m free for dinner. If you, if you want.”

 

“Are you both sure?” Thomas asked and John leaned around the doorway.

 

“James are we sure?” he repeated and he could hear Thomas chuckling on the phone. God this whole situation was bizarre to him.

 

James rolled his eyes and took the phone. “Hey babe. I don’t have to be in till six. You can have him then, I’ll take him up to the museum with me on the train.”

 

“And you’ll collect him once you’re finished your shift yes?”

 

“I’d like to.”

 

It was so frank and matter of fact, so casual that John was at a loss. When Max and Anne had become truly serious, sharing Anne with Jack had been the biggest point of tension and conflict for a while. But James and Thomas talked about it like it was taking Ody for a walk or choosing a restaurant for a date. Like it was normal, planned for, part of life to factor John into the equation.

 

“Wonderful, give me back to John darling, love you.”

 

“Love you too,” James handed the phone back to john. “See? Stop fuckin' panicking.”

 

John stared at him as he went for a second bagel, before stepping back into the bathroom. “So uh- six is okay?”

 

“Six is lovely pet, and don’t sound so nervous, I promise I just want to thank you for Wednesday. And catch up with you, I’ve not seen you in a week after all.”

 

“It’s not that I don’t want to I’m just-”

 

“Having trouble keeping up?” Thomas asked and the fond amusement was obvious in his tone.

 

“It feels a bit like whiplash yeah.”

 

“You’re doing very well thus far. Go back to him, enjoy the next couple of hours. I’ll see you at our place at six alright?”

 

“Alright Thomas, see you.”

 

“Give him a kiss for me while you’re at it,” Thomas added, before hanging up.

 

John took a slow breath, then another, before stepping back into the room and doing exactly as Thomas asked. He dropped into James’ lap and pulled him close for a kiss, licking a spot of cream cheese off the corner of his mouth. If nothing else, kissing James made sense to him.

 

James groaned into it, the hand not holding his bagel going to John’s lower back. “What’s that for?”

 

“It’s from Thomas,” John said. “This one’s from me though.”

 

It made James laugh softly, a low rumble rising up from his chest, as he met John’s lips with a smile. The kiss was warm and lazy, John’s arms draped around James’ shoulders. It was domestic and perfect.

 

“Eat something, pup,” James told him. “There’s plenty of time to play afterwards.”

 

They went back to bed for a bit longer, John happily wrapping himself around James once more, until the alarm James had set on his phone rang, telling them to clean themselves up and head uptown. John showered, not wanting to show up at dinner smelling like sex. Even though Thomas obviously knew that’s what had happened, the idea of showing up smelling like stale sweat and his husband, with drying lube on his thighs made him cringe. Maybe Thomas was only okay with it so long as he didn’t have to see evidence of it. At any rate, John was not taking any chances.

 

James picked out the clothes he pulled on, the tight jeans from the night before and one of the button downs Thomas had bought him, a smokey gray. Last minute he grabbed the waist coat from the three piece suit and tossed it at him.

 

“Just wear it, trust me,” James said when John raised an eyebrow.

 

“It’s just dinner, James.”

 

“I know that. You know that. But trust me, Thomas doesn’t have the self control to dress casually, no matter the situation. Wear the waist coat.”

 

John left James at the museum, after a few kisses in the park where prying eyes couldn’t see. He waited until James was inside before taking a steadying breath and heading north to 96th street.

 

He couldn't keep Thomas waiting after all. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So,” Thomas said finally, reaching to set down his now empty glass and pick up one of the two remaining cocktails on the table next to them. “I have to ask, because on the one hand I’m an incorrigible gossip-”
> 
> John groaned softly. “Here we go-”
> 
> “And on the other he is my husband,” he exchanged John’s empty glass for a fresh old fashioned and settled back across from him with a mischievous grin. “So I feel I’m at least somewhat entitled.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE Y'ALL HAVE SOME MORE FILTH
> 
> I feel like I need to share that the core scene of this chapter is what kick started this whole ridiculous endeavor. Almost a yer ago I got the idea for it and had nothing to attach it to other than the possibility of a silly one shot, and now here we are with a 100K monstrosity that became a lot more deep and emotional and personal than I expected it. 
> 
> That being said, small trigger warning for discussions of injuries related to a car crash and to systematic child abuse. Nothing graphic is said but scars are barred and the general idea is explained. 
> 
> Given that Thomas barely had 20 minutes of screen time and his entire back story and personality have to, in a way, be crafted by the author, I spent a lot of time sorting out who he is in a modern au. I'm very fond of the man who emerged after all that prep work, very desperately fond even if he's a mess with terrible coping mechanisms and a stunted understanding of human connection. I won't go into a long winded explanation of his history just yet, I'll save that for later chapters 
> 
> Also if you can pick up on the Easter egg for another show I've thrown in, you get a gold star. Its based entirely of a sleep deprived cracky idea that has now lead to a full fledged crossover that I can never let go of. 
> 
> As always I love hearing from you guys either in the comments or on tumblr at lupismaris.tumblr.com. 
> 
> Sending you all love and good vibes and of course-
> 
> HAPPY PRIDE xxoo

 

*

 

 

James had been right.

 

Thomas answered the door looking like he’d stepped out of fucking GQ or one of the other ridiculous magazines Jack read religiously- pale pink silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to make John want to look, tight pressed slacks cuffed at the ankle and leaving just enough to the imagination. His wedding ring and signet ring caught the hallway light, and John could smell the rosy scent of his cologne.

 

“Hope I’m not too early,” John managed with a smile, as Thomas’ eyes dropped to take in the sight of him on the steps. “James wanted to make sure he got there before the delivery did.”

 

“Not at all pet, do come in,” Thomas stepped aside and waved him in. John could feel his eyes assessing him as he passed. “Are those-”

 

“Pretty much entirely yes.” John shrugged. “Figured you’d want to see the results of our shopping in person.”

 

Thomas smiled as he closed the front door and leaned back against it. “Well give us a twirl, let me see-”

 

“I’m not twirling-”

 

“Oh come on let me see.”

 

John sighed and spun slowly on his heal, until he was facing Thomas again. “Acceptable, sir?” He said, trying to make it mocking.

 

But the honorific made Thomas look up at his face, his eyes dark, and John fell silent.

 

“Perfect, pet. Perfect,” Thomas said after a moment, a slow smile appearing to match the words. “Shall we?”

 

“Ah- yeah, sure, are we going out?” John asked, but Thomas made for the stairs.

 

“No I thought we’d skip the stress of a restaurant and have a nice quiet night in, if that’s alright?” 

 

“Yeah that’s fine I just- I didn’t peg you for a cook.”

 

“Oh I’m not, I had everything prepped and delivered from a lovely french spot nearby. All I had to do was stick it in the oven and wait.” Thomas shook his head. “I’m technically barred from doing anything more than that.”

 

“One night I’d love to hear why that is,” John replied, crouching down to greet the cats outside the kitchen. “Smells good.”

 

There was music playing, the same soft jazz that John was beginning to associate with the comforts of the brownstone. The breakfast table had been set on the balcony so they might enjoy the cool October evening. It was a nice set up, but with it being just the two of them, John couldn’t shake the almost intimate feel of it. Not that there were candles or anything, nothing blatantly romantic, but between the set up and how much effort Thomas had put into his appearance, well, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling. 

 

“I forgot to ask you what you like best and didn’t want to call back and interrupt your fun, so I got us a couple things to pick and choose from.” Thomas said over his shoulder, as he checked the two dishes in the oven. Two plates of appetizers and a basket of bread sat on the counter, waiting to be carried out, a little log cake waiting to be put into the icebox until they were ready for dessert.

 

“You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble, Thomas. I’d have been okay with, I dunno, Shake Shack or something. Or pizza from the corner store.” John said, even as he inspected the first plate of appetizers.

 

“And here I thought a quiet dinner at home would save me from your scolding about expenses. Clearly I was mistaken,” Thomas teased. “It is yet again my treat, so hush. And besides it’s not like I’m feeding you wagyu beef and gold encrusted bon bons.”

 

“We can’t even digest gold,” John pointed out, carrying the ready plates to the table so he had something to do.

 

“Tell that to my fellow elites who want to put it on fucking everything. Ugh they’re terrible, ruining the food scene half the time with their idiotic ideas. Now, we have ratatouille and a lamb dish, both simple and every day fare, so I don’t want to hear you nagging anymore tonight, capisce?”

 

“Capisce, capisce.” John called from the balcony, sitting out the plates. He was surprised, not a bottle of wine was in sight, just a carafe of water and a bottle of some fancy european sparkling juice. Surprised, but not entirely disappointed. 

 

The food was excellent, not that John expected anything less. Thomas told him about his trip to Washington, about the long term client who had gotten into some trouble in National Harbor and needed Thomas’ advice to remedy it. He had only gone because the man had been one of his first clients, and despite occasionally being a nuisance, Thomas didn’t feel it was worth burning bridges just yet.

 

After the appetizer he asked about John’s week, about how his interviews were going so far and if his newest monologue had taken shape on paper yet. John shrugged most of it off, realizing that, as he spoke, his entire week had been spent focused on James in one way or another. 

 

“I do hope we aren’t distracting you from your work,” Thomas said as John refilled his glass. “I realize that must take priority of course, and I’d be sick with myself if I or James was to ruin your chances at success.”

 

“I only missed one interview, it’s alright. The rest are… they’re either the wrong fit or not calling me back at all, which is honestly what I expected?” John waved his hand. “It’s alright.”

 

“You would tell us though, wouldn’t you? If we were holding you back?”

 

John looked up at him as he scoffed. “Thomas, with all respect, you couldn’t possibly hold me back more than I do myself. I promise. I’m… I’m enjoying this, this having friends kind of thing.” 

 

“Well, more than just friends in one capacity yes?” Thomas said with a smile, sitting back in his seat as he set his empty plate aside. The deep V cut of his half-buttoned shirt made John struggle not to drop his gaze as he reclined, smooth pale muscles half on display. Depending on the light, John almost thought the shirt was sheer, but then it was of course silk. 

 

John fiddled with his glass, unsure of what to say.

 

“Or have you and James not talked about it yet?”

 

“We- We talked a little bit, mostly just that we want to see what we can make of it, while I’m still in town and if- if you don’t object of course.”

 

“I thought James showed you our text conversation?”

 

“He did but I-”

 

“Then you know exactly where I stand on this, John. You make him happy and that’s all that matters to me, his happiness. And in part yours, of course.” Thomas said, getting up to clear a bit of room for the cake and fetching them each a small glass of port. “If you both are happy then I too am happy.”

 

It seemed too easy, but John was a bit too relieved to really question it. Besides, Thomas was passing him a piece of cake and the port was just bordering too heavy and sweet and James would be back in an hour or two to pick him up. Even if Thomas’ gaze occasionally fell to the bruises on his throat and his eyes darkened while looking them over, John tried to hold onto the relief.

 

Over dessert they talked about seemingly nothing, Thomas asking after the books John had checked out from the library, curious as to whether he enjoyed them. He asked about the show at Hal’s bar, how John had found Eleanor, whether he’d enjoyed himself that night before things got complicated.

 

It was nice, the same way brunch had been, the two of them idly wasting away an hour, then two, just sharing each other’s company in a way John still wasn’t used to. Thomas was comfortable, a reassuring presence that made John feel for the most part at ease, even if convention said he should be fearing for his life now that he and James were, well, whatever they were. 

 

Around nine, as Thomas stood to start cleaning up, John moved to help him, wincing at the ache in his legs. His lower back and legs had been sore when they left the hotel but with a few hours of sitting idly, the pain was more poignant, and harder to ignore.

 

“Oh, heavens what’s wrong?” Thomas asked, taking the platter from him and resting a hand on John’s back as if to steady him. Not that he needed steadying mind you, but John didn’t shake it off, the warmth of his hand was comforting.

 

“I- twisted my leg up a bit coming out of the subway yesterday,” John lied, or half lied. He had tripped up and pulled his hamstring, but it wasn’t what had caused the rest of his aches. He had James to thank for that, but he was not about to admit that so plainly to Thomas. “I’m just sore that’s all.” 

 

Thomas’ brow was furrowed as he set the platter aside and reached for one of the drawers at the island. He came back with a bottle of painkillers, setting two pills into John’s hand. “Here and I’ll give James the bottle, so you can take another two in 12 hours, alright?”

 

“I’ll be alright, I‘m used to it in a way.” John knocked back the pills with his glass of water. “just need to take a hot shower or something when I get back to the hotel.” 

 

“Oh- now there’s an idea,” Thomas mused, checking his watch. “You said James should be finishing between ten and eleven?”

 

“Yeah I think so.”

 

“Then I’ve an idea for the rest of our evening. One that might help ease your aches and pains a bit.”

 

“I hope you realize how much that sounds like a bad porno line,” John replied dryly. It made Thomas laugh as he set the last of the dishes in the sink.

 

“Well look there isn’t really any way of offering a dip in a hot tub without it sounding like a porno, good or bad, is there?” Thomas asked, his eyes dropping for a moment to John’s throat. 

 

“No. No I guess there isn’t.”

 

“Obviously it’s just an offer, no insult if you aren’t comfortable with it. But we had one set up for James after he kept coming home from shipment nights a wreck. I had, depending on whether he was planning to stay the night with you here or return to the hotel, considered switching it on for him should he need it.”

 

Again, in a way only Thomas seemed capable of doing, he explained a completely ludicrous idea and made it sound entirely and completely sensible. John watched him for a moment, trying to decide how bad of an idea it was, because it really did, even with Thomas’ seemingly wholesome explanation, sound like a bad porno. 

 

“I’ll fix us a pair of drinks?” Thomas offered, and John felt himself cave at the way his long fingers toyed with the collar of his shirt, just barely avoiding the bruises on his throat. He found himself wondering what it would feel like, if Thomas pressed down on each one, learning the marks his husband had left behind. 

 

“What about the dishes?”

 

“They’ll keep a while pet. What do you say?” his fingers moved delicately over the hollow of John’s throat and John felt himself nodding. “Excellent. C’mon upstairs.” 

 

John followed in a bit of a daze, as Thomas lead him up to the third floor. He nudged John gently towards the master bedroom, stopping in his private study to fix them both drinks. John hesitated outside the bedroom door, unsure of himself. It was their place, their private little haven, that he probably didn’t belong in, especially not after what he witnessed a week before. He glanced over his shoulder as Thomas reappeared and noticed, absently, that the long mirror that had been hanging in the hall was no longer in its place. Maybe they’d changed their minds about how it looked with the decor, maybe they’d found a better spot for it.

 

Thomas had a hand on his back and was nudging him into the bedroom before he could really think about it too much, a little tray in his free hand with their drinks on it. “Just through here.”

 

The bedroom had the same quiet regal touch in it’s decor, the grand bed with a jewel tone duvet and white sheets, the old ornate ceiling. The bookshelf built into the wall was filled with what had to be their most precious volumes, knick knacks and photos scattered across the dresser and the vanity by the master bathroom. It looked lived in and loved, traces of both men easily found as John looked around, his curiosity moving past that sunday morning and getting lost in what he could learn from the room itself. 

 

“I’ll fetch towels for you,” Thomas told him, coming back from the balcony, his sleeves rolled up. “The tub should be ready in a moment if you want to go settle in.”

 

He disappeared into what John assumed was a rather sizeable walk in closet and John had to talk himself into actually going through with it. On one hand, Thomas was being his usual over the top self, coddling and pampering in ways John would probably never be comfortable with. On the other it meant Thomas would see him for the messy creature he was, scarred and damaged. 

 

But James had accepted him for it. And Thomas had known about his prosthetic first, so really, what were the chances he’d suddenly recoil when faced with it again?

 

His back ached as if offering it’s opinion on the matter and John methodically removed his shoes, waistcoat, shirt and trousers, before sitting on the nearby bench to carefully pull off his pros. It wasn’t far to the balcony doors, open to the cool night air, and John found a pair of chairs and a little bistro table on one end, and a tub for two, maybe three, on the other, with a little reflective glass wall for privacy from the neighbors.

 

John had managed to climb into the tub and was settling back with a heavy sigh when Thomas returned, setting the towels on the table next to the drinks. He pulled up one of the chairs and offered John his drink.

 

“Feel alright?”

 

John nodded, the soft green water smelling like lavender and herbal salts, the heat of it already easing the ache. “Bad porno or not, it’s excellent.”

 

Thomas laughed, sipping his martini. “Good. Maybe one day we’ll sort out how not to sound like a porno.”

 

“Eh, a hot tub is involved, I doubt it.” He sipped his own drink, a perfectly mixed old fashioned with cherries on a toothpick, as elaborate as the man who made it. Fitting. 

 

After a moment Thomas reached out with careful fingers, touching the burn scar the curved over John’s shoulder, bicep and pectoral. “From the accident too?”

 

“Yeah. Gas tank from one of the cars caught fire. “ John shivered at the barely there touch as it moved down his arm, touching the first puckered scar that sat just above the water.

 

“And this one?”

 

“Mm, piece of metal from the door I think.”

 

Thomas made a soft sound, not one of pity John hoped, and withdrew his hand. “The speckles on your forearm are from glass yeah?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“My brother has similar scars. Though he fell out of a window. Has it all up and down his right arm,” he continues, and John can see, even in the dim light, a few similar scars on Thomas’ large hands, as if maybe he’d punched glass or broken a mirror years and years before. He wanted to ask but wasn’t sure how.

 

“Younger brother?” John asked instead.

 

“Twin, actually,” Thomas said with a fond, almost shy smile, as his fingers dipped lazily into the water. 

 

“You have a twin? Please tell me you’re identical.” Thomas nodded and John couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh my god, I can almost picture the chaos you probably caused.”

 

“Oh no, not as much as you’d think. Joe is a quiet thing, or was when we were boys, always behaving. Now I on the other hand-” His smile twisted with a touch of bitterness, “well, I behaved when he asked me to, let’s just say that.” 

 

“He’s the one Miranda mentioned? Does he still live in London?”

 

“Works as a detective in Whitechapel. Probably a large part of why I’m already going gray, mind you.” 

 

John tilted his head, his eyes finding the streaks of silver along Thomas’ sideburns. “It suits you. The gray. Better than most.” 

 

“James says so too. I used to try and dye them but he’d whine about it so I stopped.” 

 

On a whim, and maybe it was one of madness because he certainly couldn’t blame the drink in his other hand, John reached out with damp fingers and traced the way the silver curled just faintly above Thomas’ ear, before fading into the carefully sculpted waves of blond. Thomas went still, half leaning into the touch as he watched John’s face, the deep blue of his eyes nearly black in the light. 

 

It made John feel reckless.

 

“I thought you were planning to join me, when you suggested this,” he said after a minute, pulling his hand slowly away. 

 

Thomas arched an eyebrow. “I wasn’t sure it’d be welcome.”

 

“It’s your house after all. Hardly fair for me to be the only one pampered.” and it wasn’t like they were naked, John still had his briefs on, and there was enough room for them both to sit comfortably without being all wrapped up together. He and Jack had done similar things before, if the hotel had a jacuzzi. It was harmless, John told himself, harmless.

 

There was a moment of hesitation between them, before Thomas set aside his drink and stepped back inside. John could just see him in the doorway, his back turned to him as he kicked off his loafers and pulled off his shirt. John expected the pale expanse of skin, expected the lean, firm muscle of a swimmer. He didn’t expect the crisscrossing stripes of white that Thomas carried on his back, from the broad width of his shoulders all the way down to his trim waist and beyond, if John hazard to let his imagination wander. He sat up a bit to see them better, as Thomas stripped off and folded his trousers. They were old, clearly, faded with more time than John’s scars had been given, not so stark as to constantly catch the eye, but unmistakable once seen.

 

Thomas caught him staring as he turned around and John settled back into the water feeling sheepish. Thomas hadn’t stared at his scars, it wasn’t fair for him to do the same, even if his had been entirely unexpected.

 

“You don’t have to act like they aren’t there,” Thomas told him gently, climbing into the tub opposite him, reaching for his drink once he settled. 

 

“I just- didn’t expect them I guess.”

 

“Mm most don’t, though most don’t see them.”

 

“What happened?”

 

Thomas huffed a weak laugh. “Bit of a list I’m afraid. Short story is, old fashioned family, old fashioned discipline. Old fashioned boarding school, old fashioned discipline. Etcetera, etcetera.”

 

“But is- I mean the scarring isn’t exactly common I thought-”

 

“I wasn’t exactly an obedient child, pet.” he said it lightly, as if it was enough of an explanation to wave away the cruelties of his childhood, and John was torn between grieving for him, and being awestruck. 

 

It took a certain kind of person, he’d learned over the years in the system, to face one’s trauma as if it had merely been an inconvenience. Solomon had become one such person, able to just brush off the scars and bad dreams like they were nothing more than a nuisance. Charles wore his trauma like a medal of honor, making sure no one could miss it, that no one could make the mistake of pitying him for it. James held his trauma in a bottle until it overflowed, John had learned that on wednesday if nothing else. John’s trauma, well, he wasn’t sure exactly how he and his trauma were getting on at this point, but it wasn’t great he knew that much. 

 

Thomas smiled bitterly at him over the rim of his glass, again reminding John of some lord in a grand house, and he could see plainly, for the first time, the strength in the man, the strength of mind, of character, that Thomas tried so hard to just mask under frivolities and bright smiles and glasses of champagne. 

 

“Well, I’m glad to see that hasn’t changed,” John said finally, leaning forward just enough so they could gently knock their glasses together. It earned him a genuine smile, bright and warm, and John counted himself lucky, to be trusted like this when he had no real right to Thomas’ secrets. 

 

They sat in an oddly comfortable silence for a while, John slipping further into the tub as his body relaxed. Occasionally their legs pressed against each other, fleeting moments of contact that had John opening his eyes again, only to find Thomas with his head tipped back and his gaze on the stars over head. 

 

“So,” Thomas said finally, reaching to set down his now empty glass and pick up one of the two remaining cocktails on the table next to them. “I have to ask, because on the one hand I’m an incorrigible gossip-”

 

John groaned softly. “Here we go-”

 

“And on the other he is my husband,” he exchanged John’s empty glass for a fresh old fashioned and settled back across from him with a mischievous grin. “So I feel I’m at least somewhat entitled.”

 

“I can’t expect anything we did is gonna be exciting to you.”

 

“Humor me then, pet. Did you enjoy yourself?”

 

“I know you can see the hickies, what do you think?”

 

“James has always had a bit of a possessive streak. A subtle one mostly but there nevertheless.” Thomas’ gaze dropped to the left side of John’s throat where the marks sat proudly. 

 

“I wouldn’t call it subtle,” John said with a wry grin. “Not with how he dragged me out of the party.” Or how the pet names he used seemed to carry such weight of ownership. John felt a fresh wave of heat in his face, having nothing to do with the water.

 

“So you went back to the hotel then?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What did you like best?” Thomas asked, pulling his knees into his chest. “James has so many lovely features, I’m sure you’re developing favorites already.”

 

John thought it over, chewing at his lip. Thomas technically had a right to know, James was his husband. Even if it felt ridiculous and John kind of wanted to sink into the water and disappear rather than give him a play by play. 

 

“Hes- he’s so big, like, physically?” John said finally. “Which has never been like, a thing for me? But christ- I mean I knew he was bigger than me but it feels so much more substantial when we- when-”

 

“Oh I know. And the freckles-”

 

“The freckles! They’re endless! And don’t even get me started on his tattoos-” John still had a clear mental image of James’ tattooed fingers working him open that afternoon. 

 

“Was he wearing his tongue stud?” Thomas asked and when John shook his head he made a sound of disapproval. “I told him to wear it!”

 

“I probably would have died honestly.”

 

“He did say you were rather fixed on it, that night at Hal’s.” 

 

“It suits him more than it should, is that weird to say?”

 

“Oh no, I agree with you.”

 

John laughed, a wild little giggle, as he sat back against the edge of the tub, relaxing again. “And to think- I was worried about you being angry. Or not wanting to acknowledge it happened.”

 

“Pfft, on the contrary, I will happily tell you anything you want to know.”

 

“Anything?” John repeated.

 

“Did he blow you?” Thomas asked, smiling when John flushed a darker shade and nodded. “Did you pull his hair at all? No? Oh try it next time, trust me. He’ll be putty in your hands.”

 

Something he and James’ had in common then, John thought, sipping his drink. 

 

“Oh and you should absolutely let him eat you out,” Thomas added, laughing when John choked a little. “He’s good at it, I promise.”

 

“I’ll- I’ll take your word for it. We didn’t really, well.”

 

“Get past the basics?” Thomas’ eyes had gone dark again, dropping every few seconds to John’s throat, as if he was trying to picture James’ leaving them. 

 

“No I think we were both too caught up in just outright fucking for any creativity,” John replied, tilting his head back a bit more, mildly pleased at how it kept Thomas’ attention. 

 

“Well it was only your first night together, there’s time. I take it James sort of set the pace for it all?”

 

“He’s very good at it, isn’t he? Taking what he wants, knowing what he likes?”

 

“He is now yes. Took him a long time to come to terms with what he needed most from a lover.” 

 

“Well he’s excellent at the fucking part that’s for sure,” John replied flatly, closing his eyes for a moment and he missed Thomas’ sharp smile. “And he’s- fuck he’s a sight when he’s in your lap isn’t he?”

 

“Ah, so you did get a private encore. Excellent,” Thomas’ voice was low and honey sweet. “I was hoping you enjoyed our show.” 

 

John’s eyes snapped open.

 

Thomas was watching him, dark eyed and intent, smiling behind the rim of his glass as he reclined in the water opposite him. 

 

“What?” John asked. 

 

The air around them seemed to shift from comfortable to unfamiliar and heated, the space between them reduced to mere inches with the implications of his words.

 

“You couldn’t have really thought we’d keep a full length dressing mirror in the hallway, just opposite our door,” Thomas continued. “Where anyone who happened to walk past would have a front row seat to our bed. Really John, I know you’re not that naive.” 

 

“You- you planned this.”

 

“Can you fault me? I knew you and James weren’t going to take the leap if left to your own devices. You needed to see what you were missing, and he… needed to let go for a bit. What better way then a little morning exhibition?” 

 

Much like the moment when he’d glimpsed Thomas’ strength of character, John was quickly realizing he had entirely underestimated the man’s cunning, casting it aside as common place and centered entirely around shallow appearances and aesthetic. When in truth, John was now prepared to state that Thomas Hamilton McGraw may have been the most cunning and clever man John had ever had the honor of coming across, to the point where he was almost afraid. 

 

Almost.

 

Mostly, being entirely out smarted had him stupidly turned on. 

 

“When… when did you start planning this I wonder?” he asked, as the shock slowly faded into fascination.

 

“Honestly?”

 

“Honestly.”

 

“The day after the party. I told you, even then, that you’d caught my husband’s eye, and that hadn’t happened in all the years we've been together. I was curious, and I knew James, despite having only known you for a few hours, would fixate on you.”

 

“Did he?”

 

“Want to know why he didn’t see you to the door?” Thomas asked, his tone casual and low. John nodded, trying for calm as he sipped his drink. 

 

“Because I told him to go upstairs and prep himself for a good fucking, since he kept staring at you over breakfast as if wondering how you’d taste. Because I knew if I got him to the point of falling apart he’d admit that he wanted to see you again.” Thomas hummed. “And he did. We got lucky, that you forgot your passport. Otherwise we’d have made up some ridiculous story to have James in Weehawken.” 

 

“You want me to believe that James, mister I don’t like anyone, wanted to fuck me the day after he met me?” John asked, glad he sounded as incredulous as he felt.

 

“No, he didn’t, or he wasn’t aware that’s what he wanted. But he wanted you, in some capacity or another, likely would have been happy with just friendship. But by the time you’d finished the workshop, he was pretty much certain that he wanted to take you to bed.”

 

“You’re… very selfless in all this.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Focusing entirely on what James wants. I suppose that’s the ideals of marriage, giving your spouse whatever they ask?” John asked, and he knew his tone held a touch of sarcasm, a touch of suspicion. 

 

Thomas wasn’t telling him everything, that lingering glint in his eyes gave that much away. John may technically have been out matched when it came to cunning, but he wasn’t a fool. Thomas had as much interest in this situation as James did.

 

Thomas sipped his drink, lips stained by the pink of his martini. “Oh, I would hardly say I’m selfless.”

 

“No?” John asked, feigned innocence on his face.

 

“No. If things hadn’t gotten so... personal that night we watched the film together, I’d have had you then on our couch.” Thomas said frankly. “But you were so honest with me, so vulnerable, and the last thing I wanted to do was seem like I was taking advantage, seem like I wasn’t genuinely interested in you, and not just your body.”

 

“Are you interested in me?”

 

“Darling, I didn’t have to have dinner with you tonight. I had five other invitations I thoroughly declined, because I wanted to have you here with me.” 

 

John hummed softly, mulling it all over. There… well there were a few ways this could go. He could excuse himself until James said his piece, but then he half expected James would want to see John with his husband, as much as Thomas probably wanted to see him with James. He could excuse himself because it was too soon too fast, but he’d spent as much time with Thomas as he had James, and the desire, those sparks of want, were as present now as they had been that Sunday morning when he’d watched Thomas, for lack of a better word, dominate James. 

 

Thomas wanted him. 

 

He, mostly sober and entirely present, wanted Thomas. Had wanted Thomas. 

 

So that left only one option really.

 

John sipped his drink and frowned. “I’m… surprised, I must admit.”

 

“Why’s that pet?”

 

“I expected Jealousy.”

 

Thomas blinked. “Jealousy?”

 

“Mm.”

 

“And why’s that?”

 

“Well, you just seem like the type to care about taking someone’s virginity,” John replied and he felt a dark thrill at the way Thomas went still, his eyes dark and bottomless, his grip on his glass so tight his knuckles went pale. So he had read his alpha male arrogance right, even if it had been fleeting. “But instead you let James take the opportunity from you.” 

 

“James was your first,” Thomas said slowly and christ, John had never quite seen lust so plainly on another man’s face before, especially not directed at him. 

 

“He was.” John held his gaze as he set aside his drink, the toothpick and it’s alcohol soaked cherries caught between his teeth. Thomas watched him, fixed, as he used his tongue to pull the first two cherries off the pick. “Does that bother you?”

 

“On the contrary,” Thomas said, setting his own unfinished drink aside. “I feel a sense of pride at that.”

 

“Do you?”

 

“James is mine,” slowly, as if expecting John to flinch away, Thomas closed the distance between them, until they were mere inches apart, his arms braced on either side of John. “If anyone was to be your first, aside from me, I would want it to be him.”

 

John held his gaze, rolling the last cherry, still on the pick, across his tongue. He felt wild, reckless, with the weight of Thomas’ eyes on him, the heat of his body, of the water, making it just a little too hard to think. 

 

“Still sounds like jealousy to me,” he said and Thomas scoffed. “That and pride can go hand in hand in the right circumstances I’m told.” 

 

“Mouthy thing you are, James didn’t mention that.” Thomas’ fingers found the bruises James had left and pressed down, making John gasp at the ache. His face was barely an inch away, all John had to do was lean forward-

 

“I’m sure a clever man like you can think of away to shut me up, if you don’t like it,” he challenged instead. “Sir.”

 

Thomas was still for a moment, watching him with unwavering focus, as if looking for something. Then, slowly, waiting for John to push him away, his hand curled around John’s throat and he plucked the toothpick from between his lips. John took a quick, shallow breath and Thomas was kissing him, hot and hungry, licking into his mouth and stealing the cherry that still sat on his tongue. When John whimpered Thomas pressed closer, his larger frame pinning John to the side of the tub, his hand still curled gently around his throat. His kiss was possessive, his touch was possessive, even the way his body slid against John’s felt possessive, as if he wanted to make John entirely his. Hal had, in part, warned him, that Thomas had a possessive streak a mile wide, but John hadn’t realized it’d be kind of thing that made him melt under the man’s hands.

 

“God- fuck I have wanted to kiss you since we had Brunch,” Thomas breathed against his lips, tasting of pomegranate and gin. The hand around John’s throat dropped, joining his other on John’s thighs as he spread them wide, so he could fit snug between them. The press of his body, of the half hard shape of his cock made John gasp, his hands scrambling for purchase on thomas’ shoulders. Half hard and already as big as James, John was almost sure, and that thought made him dizzy. 

 

“I probably would have let you,” he admitted, before Thomas kissed him again. He’d have been confused, concerned certainly, but if Thomas had kissed him on the library steps he’d have been instant putty in the man’s clever hands, of that he was sure. 

The same clever hands moving to cup his ass, fingers digging in hard and pulling gently at his briefs, not yet working under them, just teasing as he coaxed soft sounds from John’s lips. Thomas ground their hips together, the heat of the water making their arousal feel more like a beautiful high than a fever, the drag of their soaked briefs on their half hard cocks a maddening sensation. 

 

John arched his back when Thomas’ fingers pressed curiously at his entrance, stretching the fabric of his briefs over it.

 

“Let me in pet, hm?” Thomas asked, biting at his lips. “I want to feel you-” 

 

“Please,” John heard himself say, as Thomas made a low sound against his jaw, his hands stripping off John’s briefs as quickly as possible without separating their bodies. Thomas’ hands returned to his ass, two curious fingers finding his entrance.

 

The sound Thomas made when his fingers slipped easily into John was nearly primal, teeth sharp against John’s jaw. “Did James fuck you before he went to work, pet?” 

 

“He did-” John gasped out, trying to hold onto Thomas as the man pulled away. He didn’t go far, resettling between John’s thighs, one hand resting behind John’s lower back to lift his hips, his other hand returning to it’s work. Two long fingers spread him open, pressing deep without any extra help, leaving John whimpering against Thomas’ shoulder. 

 

“God you’re still so slick and open, I could fuck you just like this I bet,” Thomas rumbled, biting a mark on the right side of John’s throat, mirroring those James’ had left. 

 

John couldn’t answer, not as Thomas’ fingers found his prostate and worked it over, again and again, until John was shaking in his arms, his hips rocking into Thomas’ hand. The third finger stung a bit, a blissful burn that John felt along his nerves as Thomas stretched him as wide he possible, curling his fingers deep.

 

“Couldn’t I pet?” Thomas asked, finding his prostate again, massaging it slowly with his fingers. “I bet I could put you over the very edge of this tub and fuck you raw, with how thoroughly James fucked you.”

 

“Thomas- Oh christ-” John pulled him in for a kiss, messy and desperate as he writhed under his hands. He wasn’t sure when he’d become so easy but god it was addictive, the way Thomas’ fingers moved inside him. 

 

“Would you like that John?” Thomas asked against his lips, voice already rough. “Or would you like me to take you to bed and fuck you properly? Get you all ready for when James comes home, hm?”

 

That’s right, James would be home in no more than an hour, maybe an hour and a half, and he’d find them like this, or spread out in bed, with John no doubt delirious with sex, if Thomas’ fingers alone could reduce him to whimpers. 

 

“Bed- please Thomas, please-” John managed, hoping that, when James did step through his bedroom door, he wasn’t disappointed about finding John in bed with his husband. 

 

“Mm you ask so nicely little one,” Thomas said with a smile, biting at his lips before withdrawing his fingers. He climbed out of the tub, stripping off his own briefs and fetching the towel, drying himself quickly, before reaching to pull John from the water. 

 

John kept kissing him, as Thomas tried to dry him off, needy for it now that the chilly night air surrounded them, needing the heat of Thomas’ body. He got what he wanted, as Thomas decided he was dry enough and gathered him up in his arms, carrying him inside with the kind of ease that really should have been embarrassing. 

 

But John was pressed into the plush sheets of their bed before he could give it much thought and Thomas’ body was covering his own, half smothering him as John dragged him into a kiss, hands firm on the sides of Thomas’ face. He could feel the faintest hint of weekend stubble along his jaw, and John was struck with the desire to rub his cheek against it in the morning, before Thomas shaved, to feel the rough burn of it. 

 

His hands were lifted and pinned to the bed, with an unspoken command to keep them there, as Thomas explored his body, mouth moving down along his throat and across his chest, taking a few moments to tease John’s nipples until he squirmed. Unlike James’ careful and methodical focus, Thomas seemed constantly distracted, finding a new patch of skin he wanted to mark, a new spot to press his fingers against and see what sounds John made. Not once did he touch John’s cock, marking his thighs instead before coaxing John onto his front, a pillow under his hips.

 

“But I-” John tried to argue, wanting to see Thomas’ face. 

 

“Trust me pet,” Thomas told him, a firm hand on his back to keep him in place as he reached for the bedside table, coming back with a bottle of lube and a condom. “Ready as you are I don’t want to hurt you.” 

 

“You won’t. I know you won’t.”

 

John’s confidence was rewarded with a trail of soft kisses along his spine and slick fingers working into him. He arched into Thomas’ hand with a broken sound, three fingers stretching him thoroughly.

 

“This is hardly going to be the only time we do this, John,” Thomas said against his ear. “It’s easier like this, the first few times. After this, you can have me however you like, alright?”

 

John nodded and Thomas kissed the soft skin behind his ear. “Good boy. I’ve got you, just trust me a bit longer.”

 

John did trust him, and really, if his head had been clear and his body cooperative, that would have terrified him. But for now, he hummed softly and preened under Thomas’ careful attention, until the fingers were pulled away and he felt Thomas’ hands spreading his thighs again. The blunt press of his cock head made John curse- even with all the prep the stretch was overwhelming. John had been right, Thomas’ cock was bigger, long and thick and stealing John’s breath as it entered him inch by inch.

 

“Oh- oh god-oh fuck-” he gasped out against the sheets, his hands scrambling for purchase. “Oh god Thomas-”

 

“You’re doing so well for me, John, so good,” Thomas said, hands firm on John’s hips, his voice no more than a heady rumble. “So fucking tight.”

 

John whimpered as Thomas bottomed out, every nerve in his body on fire at the endless stretch. It was too much, too much for him to take, but Thomas was leaving soft kisses along the back of his neck, his hands running up and down John’s flanks to soothe him, murmuring praise until John began to settle.

 

“You feel so good around my cock,” he said, soft against John’s ear. “Like you were made for it John, god. I could fuck you for hours and you’d still be this tight for me wouldn’t you?” he got a moan in reply, which seemed a good enough answer. “James and I could use you to our fill and you’d still be so goddamn perfect for us.”

 

“Please-” John squirmed under him, the thought of James being with them almost too much. Thomas gripped his hips and started to move, slow thrusts that had John moaning into the sheets, the drag of his cock so deep John could practically taste him. “Fuck, fuck yes-”

 

“That’s it, darling, let me hear you,” Thomas said, lifting John’s hips and grinding his cock into him hard as he found a demanding pace, one that left John making incoherent sounds and just trying to hold on. “No need to be shy.”

 

John nearly sobbed against the bed, trying to push himself back against Thomas’ thrusts, trying to meet him halfway and take him deeper, trying to be good for him. It was good, so fucking good, the feel of his hands, his cock, the sounds of Thomas’ laboured breathing- John was lost in it. Nothing else seemed to matter. 

 

Thomas slid an arm under John, pulling John up and flush against his chest as he ground his cock deep, pressing hard against John’s prostate. John lay sprawled against him, Thomas’ hand sitting carefully at the hollow of his throat, his lips against his ear once more. 

 

“I can’t wait to fuck you raw, leave you dripping and aching for when James’ gets home, a pretty little present for him after a long, awful day,” he said, biting John’s earlobe, grinding his cock against John’s prostate again. “Or maybe I’ll get a plug in you, hm? Leave you untouched an begging for him.”

 

John would have agreed to anything, honestly, but both ideas sounded like more than he deserved, sounded like the kind of things lovers did. He couldn’t argue, not with the air being knocked out of his lungs with each slow thrust of Thomas’ hips. He could almost picture James in the doorway, watching them with a tired hunger after a long day. John wanted it, more than anything, as he turned his head and tried to get Thomas to kiss him.

 

It worked, for the most part, Thomas licking into his mouth and biting at his lips to make the awkward angle worth something. He ground his hips again and John let out a broken sound, so close to release that it nearly hurt. 

 

Suddenly Thomas went still behind him, hips flush against John’s ass, hands tight where they kept him upright. John squirmed, trying desperately to get him to move, not sure why he stopped when they were both so close.

 

Then he heard the heavy intake of breath from the doorway.

 

“Welcome home, beloved,” Thomas said, smiling against John’s ear. “You’re a touch later than expected. It’s nearly eleven.”

 

John opened his eyes to see James standing in the doorway, face flushed as he took in the sight of them together. 

 

“I-I- we were a man down and-” James tried to say. “Jesus fuck, Thomas-”

 

“You were right, James, he’s such a good boy,” Thomas said, pressing a kiss to John’s throat. “Aren’t you pet?”

 

John whined, trying to roll his hips and get Thomas to move, reaching for James as he did. He watched James drop his jacket on the floor, watched him scramble out of his clothes in the space between the doorway and the bed, before he was pressing himself into John’s arms.

 

“Fuck, just look at you John,” he said, kissing John hard. “Just look at you-”

 

John clung to him as Thomas started to fuck him again, with a demanding rhythm that pushed him into James’ arms. “I’m- fuck, oh fuck, I’m close Thomas-”

 

“Come for us John,” James said, “you’ve been so good for Thomas, so good for us both-”

 

Thomas ground his cock into him once more and John felt his body seize, his face buried in James’ shoulder as he came. He whimpered as Thomas fucked him through it, a quick reckless rhythm until he felt Thomas tug his head back with a hand in his hair, baring John’s throat so he could bite down as he came. The mark, John realized, heavy and bruised, would match those James’ had left. Through the haze he could see James watching them both with a look of awe, jaw slack and eyes reverent. 

 

Slowly, Thomas pulled away, letting James gather John up in his arms and press him back down into the bed. Absently John heard thomas pass James a condom, heard James ask if he was alright, if he could take a bit more. John smiled, nodding as he pulled James’ into a kiss- he wanted, already exhausted and sated and no doubt aching once the high faded, but he wanted James all the same. And on top of it all he wanted Thomas to see them together. 

 

It was soft and slow in comparison, as James fucked him. Thomas held tight to his right hand and John kept his left threaded through James’ hair. James stayed wrapped around him, looming over him as if to shield him from the rest of the world, and John almost loved him for it, for the feeling of safety it instilled in him. James held him tight when he came, Thomas’ hand equally tight in his own, grounding him as he floated in the post coital haze. 

 

John was barely aware of anything as they cleaned him up and got him to drink a bit of water, to take another dose of advil, before they both curled up in bed with him. He felt them press lazy kisses to his skin in the dark, felt their hands meet on his hip, resting there together, and John let himself fall asleep to the warmth of their bodies and the soft sound of their breathing, feeling truly and completely safe for the first time he could remember.


End file.
